


A Ranger of Clonmel

by RangerPippin



Category: Ranger's Apprentice - John Flanagan
Genre: Ferris has Mental Turmoil, Gen, Halt O'Carrick & Pritchard (Ranger's Apprentice), Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, My take on Ferris's descent into fratricide, My take on how Halt and Pritchard met, Parental Pritchard (Ranger's Apprentice), Rescue
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:20:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 25,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22393909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RangerPippin/pseuds/RangerPippin
Summary: The Crown Prince of Clonmel is kidnapped by a gang of desperate murderers. The distraught King and Queen hear of a man, a foreigner with fearsome skill in tracking and hunting, who has been helping villagers with problems such as petty theft and burglary. After hearing their story, Pritchard resolves to find their son before it's too late.
Relationships: Pritchard & Halt
Comments: 68
Kudos: 68





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first published fic, for this fandom or any other! A canon-compliant bit of backstory for Halt's life before Araluen, before Ferris's assassination attempts. My take on how the Ranger of Clonmel and the Ranger from Clonmel first met. Enjoy!

Brendan sniffed the air, smelling the wood fires that warmed the rooms of the drafty old castle, the oily smoke of the sentries’ torches, the cold wind that blew the dark clouds across the sky, hiding the stars.

_A good night for a plot._

He held his fist high in the air, signalling to his men hidden in the trees behind him.

_Not yet._

He waited, dark eyes watching the sentry who paced back and forth on the wall. He must be watching the water clock as much as the stretch of wall assigned for him to guard - for, as Brendan well knew, the end of his shift was fast approaching. He smiled. The sentries had become fewer and fewer, in recent months, their shifts growing longer and longer as more of them were needed elsewhere. All the better.  
  
The sentry lifted his head for one last, hard look at the dark woods and the open ground that lay between them and the wall. Brendan resisted the urge to shuffle back into the shadows, confident that the sentry couldn’t see him. Finally, the man turned and walked back across the wall, then disappeared from view as he descended inside the castle. It would be about twenty minutes, Brendan’s scouts had learned, before his replacement would arrive. Brendan began ticking them off in his mind, one by one.  
  
He waited - one breath, two, three - for the sentry to descend out of earshot and dismiss his concluded duties from his mind. Then he lowered his fist, and without a word, he and his compatriots swarmed swiftly across the open ground. Five minutes had passed.

The season had been rainy, and the moat was full near to overflowing. Though not all of his men could swim, those who could not had brought floating planks to cling to, and those who could swim pulled them swiftly across. Any doubts they might have about entering the deep and murky water died in their throats at the sight of Brendan’s steely eyes, one hand loosening the sword in its sheath. Finally, all the men in his small attack party were safely across the moat. Ten minutes had passed, and there was precious little time left to them before the next sentry would be upon them.

Luckily, their target wasn’t far - merely thirty feet above their heads. Brendan beckoned behind him to where his best climber, Cormac, was waiting. Cormac only paused to shake the water from his eyes and to stretch before beginning to climb, setting feet and hands into the cracks between the stones and swarming steadily up the wall. When he reached the top, he uncoiled the rope slung over his shoulder, made it fast to a parapet, and threw it down to his waiting companions. Fifteen minutes had passed.

Brendan came first, not waiting to see how his men were faring before swiftly making his way to the far end of the wall, where the first sentry had disappeared and the next would appear. Steps sounded on the stairs, and through a gap in the clouds, the stars glinted off the sentry’s helmet and coat of mail.

And the knife that rose high before falling sharply.

Twenty minutes had passed.

~oOo~

Time was still short, as Brendan knew all too well. It would be only three hours before a new sentry was due to arrive and the dead sentry’s body would be discovered, and any number of guards and servants to dodge as they went about their plot. They could not risk being discovered, for they stood no chance against the full force of the palace guard.

Not yet.

Stealthily they slid down the ropes to land in the courtyard: this point was closest to the castle walls and thus provided the shortest distance to cross. Brendan’s scouts had told him nothing of the sentries here, so he and the rest of his crew held back as the three stealthiest among them slithered forward, noting where the light glinted from helmet and spear, killing where they must, until they found a path to the wall that was left unguarded. Once at the wall, it wasn’t hard to slink along it, under cover of bush and tree, until they reached their target.

There wasn’t much to distinguish the window from the ones around it, but it was unlit by the light of a hallway sconce - a bedroom - and the curtains were made of a richer material.

Once again Cormac climbed the wall. Once again a rope was let down. Once again the men swarmed up silently. Brendan’s feet landed softly on the rug, and he swung to analyze the room, searching for the bed - or beds.

Two beds. Two boys. Completely identical.

Brendan cursed. He had known about the Crown Prince’s twin brother, but he had hoped that in such a large castle, the boys would have separate rooms.

“We should take ‘em both,” Cormac whispered. “Be sure of getting the right one.”

“No,” Brendan whispered back. “We’re not taking two. More risk we’ll be caught with two, and more risk one of them will escape.”

“Well then, which one is him?”

Brendan stepped closer to the beds, his gaze sweeping over the two boys, searching for a clue. One of these boys was the Crown Prince of Clonmel. But which one?

His eyes alighted on the braid woven into the hair of the boy on the right - woven to resemble a crown. No such braid adorned the hair of the other. A glint of silver at the right-hand boy’s throat caught his eye, and gently he pulled the chain free of the prince’s nightshirt, revealing a charm in the shape of a wild wolf.

“This is the Crown Prince,” he whispered. “Get him back to camp. If you’re caught, and the King doesn’t kill you, I will make you wish he had.”

With a gesture, he summoned those of his party that had been chosen to follow him on the second half of their mission. Their work in the castle wasn’t done - not yet.

~oOo~


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a short chapter: Halt's first desperate bid for freedom.

~oOo~

Halt was walking in the woods with Ferris, and Ferris was talking, and Halt wasn’t listening. Instead, he was peering through the trees, trying to catch a glimpse of something he had seen before, though he couldn’t remember what it was. The harder he looked, and the deeper he walked, the further the memory of what he was searching for seemed to recede. Ferris’s voice, louder now, grated on his consciousness, and Halt felt a strange uneasiness creep over him, as if his brother might suddenly turn and strike him.

And then they were at dinner, with their parents and Caitlyn. Ferris was talking again. 

Halt stared down at his plate, wishing he were elsewhere - his dress shirt was uncomfortable and tight, its cuffs choking and chafing his wrists. His stomach rolled, and he took a bite of chicken, but the meat was tough and tasteless in his mouth.

His father was talking to him, and his voice sounded strange. Halt’s chest tightened with dread - there was something wrong here. Something terrible was happening. His heartbeat quickened, racing faster and faster until -

Halt awoke, gasping harshly through the rough cloth tied in his mouth. The cold wind stung at his face and his lungs, adding to his panic. The tightness around his wrists hadn’t faded - they were tied in front of him with cords. And an arm was wrapped around his ribs, its grip crushingly tight.

But that wasn’t the worst of it. For as Halt’s vision cleared and he was able to look around him, he could see the outer castle walls only a few hundred yards away, could see the walls of the tower a foot from his face, and worst of all, as he looked down, he could see the ground stretching between them, impossibly far below.

As he looked towards it, head swimming, the ground lurched towards them with a jerk. His stomach roiled, and a stifled noise of panic escaped him.

“Quiet!” came a rough voice, hushed and low, as the man clutching him rappelled closer to the ground again. “Another sound out of you and I let go!”

Halt’s mouth went dry with fear even as anger rose within him. He realized exactly what was happening.

He was being kidnapped.

The man pushed off the wall again, sliding down the rope to bring himself and Halt closer to the ground. A desperate idea formed in Halt’s mind, and he didn’t dare give himself time to think about it before putting it into action.

As the ground came within reach - twenty feet, then fifteen, then ten - Halt threw himself against his captor’s arm with all his strength. He felt the man’s hold on him give way under the unexpected onslaught, sending Halt tumbling to earth.

He hit the ground hard on both feet and rolled to absorb the impact. His ankles were tied, but the impact had jostled the bonds loose enough for him to kick them free, and he jumped to his feet, heart racing with adrenaline. He heard the thuds of his captors reaching the ground as he ran towards the guardhouse. With his tied hands he ripped the gag out of his mouth, ready to yell for help from the guards quartered there.

The door of the guardhouse opened before he could call out, and Halt’s legs nearly buckled in relief. His footsteps slowed as he approached the open door - but it wasn’t a guard who stepped out. It was a strange man carrying a bloodied knife.

Horror gripped Halt, and a strangled cry escaped him. He turned to run, but it was already too late. The footsteps of his captors were closing in around him.

~oOo~

Brendan watched his men drag the unconscious Prince back towards the outer castle wall. The incompetence of his men outraged him - they had not managed to get the Prince thirty feet outside his own room before he had found a way to elude them, however briefly. How near it could have come to ending in disaster.

He would punish them. Whoever had been most directly responsible for the Prince’s brief shot at freedom would come to regret it, and bitterly. But this wasn’t the time. Not yet.

He and the last of his men approached the outer wall, their work completed. They had not been discovered. Not yet.

Brendan was the last to grab the rope and scale the wall. At the top, he paused, taking one last look around the castle. 

Soon, this castle would awaken to find its heir gone.

And not long after, the day was swift approaching when this castle would be his.

But not yet.

Brendan grabbed the rope on the other side of the wall and slid down into darkness.

~oOo~


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We finally see Pritchard and Ferris!
> 
> Thanks to braigwen_s for helping me with the dialect and with bringing the tavern characters to life in this chapter!

~oOo~

Pritchard was finishing his coffee in his favorite corner of the town’s tavern when he heard it. A conversation he had been following almost subconsciously, taking a turn into darker regions. Voices grew angrier and more fearful, tankards were clutched more tightly. Pritchard began listening in earnest, and his stomach dropped at what he heard.  
  
"A heard they found him at sun-up wi his throat cut. Him an seven other castle guards."

"One o ta seven wa Ben. Me _best mate_. Three bairns at home, he had, one o tem so wee she nae yet weaned. When we track down ta scum did this, am calling blood on four o tem. One for Ben, and one fa each his bairns."

"Aye, and ye'll have them. As long as ye leave twa more fa me."

"What could ha cause all this, though? What could be so _imporant_ tat -"

"- Dan, what is it that ye know? Tell us."

"A cain't tell ya where a heard tis, an' ya dint hear it fra me. But there bin word ... some folk saying ... ta Crown Prince weren't there fa breakfast tis morning. And ta same folk saying the King an Queen are pure, pure, distraught."

"Nae."

"Aye."

"Ye can't really tink that -"

"Oh, but it make sense now, wa Keelin said! Me friend Keelin, the chief messenger. He be in charge o every single carrier pigeon in Dun Kilty. He tell me he were told to be on highest alert. Fa _any_ messages incoming."

"As if fra not just the official network, but say, if some bidd flies in asking fa a ransom..."

"Aye."

Each member of the huddled group drew back to process this new information, staring down into their ale and looking very sober indeed.

Not one noticed that the corner booth was now empty, the steam still rising from the half-finished cup of coffee.

~oOo~

Ferris’s eyes darted to his parents from time to time, from where he sat at the windowsill. Each time, he saw the same thing: his father staring moodily at the same report - an estimated reconstruction of the nights events, as drawn up by the captain of the guard - and his mother leaning against the desk, a dead expression on her face. Each time, his eyes slid away from the depressing sight.

Since the discovery of the murdered guards and Halt’s disappearance, the King had forbidden his two remaining children from leaving his sight. Ferris resented the order almost as much he resented his new bodyguard, whose presence he felt as an intrusion. More crowding in this insufferable conference chamber.

And, most likely, another person wishing the kidnappers had taken him instead.

No one had said it. But Ferris knew they had to be thinking it.

Oh, sure, Ferris was their parents’ favorite. And why not? Halt was a clumsy, stumbling social dolt at the best of times, and a grumpy, insufferable jerk the rest. Ferris knew it, and so did everybody else.

But while a kidnapped prince was a tragedy for the royal family, a kidnapped _crown_ prince was a catastrophe for the nation. Ferris being kidnapped ten times wouldn’t create such a disaster for the crown as his brother falling into the hands of ruffians just once. Ferris knew it, and so did everybody else.

It would have been less of a disaster if the bandits had simply killed Halt, Ferris thought.

Instantly, he jerked away from the thought in his mind, horrified. Horrified and guilty. How could he even _think_ something like that? About his own brother being _murdered?_ As if that could be _less_ of a disaster than...

Ferris tried to assuage his conscience by reminding himself of the intent behind the thought. Of _course,_ he would never want his brother to be killed. All he had meant was that from a purely logical standpoint, had Halt been killed instead of kidnapped, there would still remain a clear heir to the throne, whereas the current situation left the heir of Clonmel in the hands of very dangerous men.

Who even yet might very well kill him, Ferris realized.

He expected the thought to sear him with worry for his brother. And it did. But there was something else there too, another, very different emotion hiding behind the fear. Quickly, Ferris shoved the thought far down in his mind, not giving himself time to discover what it had been.

~oOo~


	4. Chapter 4

Pritchard slowed his horse, Kieran, to a walk as he approached the gates of Castle Dun Kilty. As he had expected, the two guards stationed there crossed their spears as he rode up, barring the way.

“What business do you have here?” a sandy-headed guard asked. Pritchard noted that his demeanor was much steelier than the usual manner of the castle guards. He guessed that was to be expected, from the events of the previous night.

However, recognition was flickering across the face of the other guard as Pritchard pushed back his cowl. Glancing at him, Pritchard recognized him: he had stepped in to help the man fight off a trio of bandits intent on robbing him and his pregnant wife a few weeks before. He searched his memory for the man’s name.

“I’m Pritchard - but your friend Anlon could tell you that,” he said. The other guard looked to Anlon in surprise, but Anlon’s face had resumed its hard look. “Be that as it may,” he said, “you’ve no business here. Not this morning. Orders are that no one is to be let in or out.”

Pritchard paused for a minute, weighing the risk of his next words. “On account of the Prince’s kidnapping?”

The faces of both guards flashed with surprise, then darkened in anger. “Where did you hear that... rumor?” the sandy-headed guard asked, his spear now leveled at Pritchard.

Pritchard raised both hands in a placating gesture before continuing in a reasonable tone. “Rumors from the castle kitchens are rarely only rumors. And your reaction is confirmation enough. But that’s my business here. I’ve come to offer my skills in the effort to bring the Prince home.”

The sandy-headed guard seemed to consider this. Then he narrowed his eyes. “How do we know you’re not in league with the ones who kidnapped him?”

Rather than try to counter this accusation, Pritchard simply shrugged. “If I was, I’d hardly come thundering up to the castle gates announcing it. And if I did, I expect the King would be very glad of an opportunity to speak with me, don’t you? On the other hand, the alternative is that I’m telling the truth, in which case the King might also like to speak with me. Either way, you’d best escort me to the throne room as quickly as possible.”

The suspicious guard couldn’t find fault with this logic, but he was loath to let this self-assured stranger in against his orders. He looked over at Anlon.

“Up to this morning, I’d vouch for his being a good man, to say nothing of handy in a fight. But up to this morning, I’d have vouched for his Highness being safe in his own bloody bedroom, too. Go and get the Captain - I’ll watch him.”

As the sandy-headed guard disappeared inside the castle, Anlon turned to Pritchard. “Chances are, the Captain’ll dispatch someone to escort you up to see the King. I haven’t forgotten what you’ve done for me, and I’d like to think you’re on the level. But I warn you - if you’re with them that took the Prince and killed my friends, it won’t be just the King you have to worry about.”

The smile was gone from Pritchard’s face as he responded. “I’m not with them, Anlon. And when I catch them, the King will be the last thing they have to worry about.”

~oOo~

There was several minutes’ more deliberation at the gate, but as expected, the captain of the guard eventually had Anlon escort Pritchard up to meet the King - not in his throne room, as Pritchard had expected, but in a conference chamber in one of the towers, where the King had been deliberating with his men about the situation since the early hours of the morning.

As they mounted the stairs to the tower, Pritchard noted how they spiraled up to the right - just one more detail that was meant to make the castle impenetrable to intruders. And yet - here they all were. Pritchard found himself pondering over the possible flaws that had allowed the current situation to happen - was there a mole in the castle? Some flaw in the guard shifts? Doubtless, these were the questions the King had also been pondering, he thought, as Anlon knocked on the door of the conference chamber, and a stern voice bade them enter.

Pritchard took in the scene at a glance - the King, sitting at a large oak desk, mulling over a scrap of paper and a silver pendant, his wife facing away from him. Guards posted nearby, and - somewhat to Pritchard’s surprise, two children. A teenage boy stared at him from the sill of one of the west windows, and a younger girl was turning from where she stood at a window to the south to gaze curiously at the newcomers.

“Your majesty, forgive me for the intrusion,” Anlon began. “This man is... Pritchard. He says he’s here to help in the search for his highness.”

The King of Clonmel wasn’t a tall man by any means, but as he stood to face them, the Ranger couldn’t help noting the imposing air the man had about him. His dark eyes were stern and hard, his bearded face unsmiling. He’d be a hard man to work under, Pritchard thought as the King’s gaze turned to him.

“Your majesty,” said Pritchard, bowing, “I’m sorry to hear of the pain your family is going through.”

“You’re sorry to hear it, you say? More to the point is where you heard it, I think,” said the King. His voice was deep and sonorous, and there was something about it that Pritchard didn’t like. Something grating behind the words, as though every conversation with this man was a contest there was no way of winning.

Pritchard pondered his next words before deciding the direct approach was best. “How the word got out is less important than that it has. The people know that the Prince has been kidnapped, and the people are worried. If the Crown Prince isn’t safe in his own bed, then no one is safe anywhere. And that cannot stand. I’m here to find your son and bring him home.”

But now the King was angry - angry and unsure. “Why should I trust you, a foreigner? Why do you care?”

The words struck at a wound that was still fresh, deep inside Pritchard’s heart. But not a trace of it showed on his face. “I may have been a foreigner once, but Clonmel is my home now. I’ve been using the skills I perfected as an Araluen Ranger to keep the people of Clonmel safe.”

The King paused. Indeed, he had heard rumors of a green-cloaked figure attending to everything from wild animals to gangs of highway robbers. At the time, he had been worried that this Ranger might present some kind of threat to his power. But as far as he had heard, the man had never tried to amass any kind of following, and at the time he had been embroiled in a bitter border struggle with the King of neighboring Galwegh, so he hadn’t had much time to dispute the matter. Besides, he had thought, the more this Ranger took care of the smaller problems, the more he and his soldiers could focus on keeping the other five kings in check. But Pritchard was speaking again.

“And that includes Clonmel’s heir. I’m skilled in tracking and in moving unseen.” Pritchard looked up at the King, meeting his eyes with a steady, unwavering gaze. “I find what I look for. And when I find the men that took your son, they’ll find that I hit what I aim at. All I need is for you to tell me what you and your men know, so that I can get an idea of where to start searching.”

For a moment, the King’s eyes met Pritchard’s gaze. Then, ever so slowly, they slipped away. “I don’t need you, Ranger,” he said. He reached down to his desk, picking up a scrap of paper. “This message came in not an hour ago - a ransom note, carrying my son’s pendant. If I pay the ransom... Cathán Niall comes home, unharmed. I don’t need you searching for him, ruining that chance.”

Pritchard’s face darkened in anger as he saw clearly what the King had in mind. “You know that won’t happen!” he said, fighting to keep from shouting. “As soon as they get the ransom there’s nothing stopping them from killing your son, or using him as a path to the throne! You don’t even have proof that he’s still alive. The Prince doesn’t have time for you to play it safe!”

“Are you calling me a coward?” the King thundered. He slammed his fist down on the desk, sending a cascade of papers to the floor. “I don’t have to listen to that. I don’t have to listen to _you,_ Ranger. Get out of my sight if you value your life! Guards!”

And in the commotion that followed as the many guards that filled the room seized the old man and escorted him from the room, no one noticed as the girl from the window picked up one of the papers from the floor. No one saw her disappear into a corner, behind the folds of a pushed-back curtain. 

No one wondered, just as no one had wondered for decades, why there were more curtains pushed back from the window than would have covered it, and no one noticed, just as no one had noticed for decades, that the inside of the conference room was a few feet smaller than it appeared from the outside.

~oOo~


	5. Chapter 5

It was a singularly frustrating situation to be in, Pritchard thought, being marched out of the castle at spear-point. At present, however, he was too enraged at the King’s cowardice to pay much attention to it.

_ The O’Carricks were always a powerless bunch _ , he fumed. They were always going to lose the throne at one point or another, but it was infuriating that it had to be here, now, like this. With a sixteen-year-old in the center of it all, with a coward for a father whose pride was going to get his son killed.

There was nothing for it but to try and figure out what had happened himself, Pritchard thought. He’d be starting on his search almost completely blind, without the insight on how many kidnappers, where they came from, how they got in, and what else they might have wanted that a search of the castle might have afforded him.

He was lost in thought of how to approach such a search when something brought the soldiers at the front of his little escort to a sudden halt, their spears raised in salute. His attention snapped to what had stopped them - a dark-haired young girl in a red dress. 

“Your Highness,” said one of the guards, just as Pritchard placed her himself. “Forgive me, but I believe His Majesty has commanded that you stay in the royal conference chamber.”

“He changed his mind and asked me to send a message to the Ranger,” said Caitlyn. “He feared anyone else might take too long to stop you in time.”

“Oh... of course,” said the guard uncertainly. Then, a hint of suspicion crept into his voice. “May I see the message?”

Caitlyn raised an eyebrow. “Are you a Ranger?”

The guard began to bluster out a reply, but something in the Princess’s steady, unwavering gaze gave him pause. Finally, he stepped back.

The Princess swept forward and pressed a folded square of paper into Pritchard’s hand. Looking into her eyes, Pritchard read desperation, fear, worry - and determination.

"Find Halt. And bring him home," she whispered. Then she was gone.

Fearful that the guards might try again to take the message in the Princess's absence, Pritchard held onto the folded paper tightly until he was shoved outside and the castle gate was shut behind him.

It was a reconstruction of the past night's events, drawn up by the captain of the guard.

"Well, well, Cathán Niall," murmured Pritchard. "It seems you just got a second chance."

~oOo~

The sun had risen high before Clonmel's heir woke again.

He was sitting up against some rough surface, his arms were all but numb, and his shoulders were aching. His head felt heavy, thick with fog and speared through with shafts of pain from the bump at the back of his skull. His head was hanging forward, and the unnatural angle was making his neck ache. None of these things made sense to him.

Slowly, he raised his head and tried to take stock of his surroundings. His hair had come out of its braid and fallen in front of his eyes. But when he tried to raise a hand to brush it away, he found he couldn’t move his arms. Discarding that problem for the time being, he tossed his head to get his hair out of his face. Immediately he regretted it as a fresh wave of pain crashed over him. He rested his head against the tree trunk at his back - so it was a tree trunk, scraping his arms with its bark. The pain in his shoulders eased as he leaned back against it, as did the pounding in his head. He was content to lean there and catch his breath as he tried to piece together his situation. 

He was leaning against the trunk of a slender tree, his arms pulled back and his wrists joined by a short length of rope behind it. From behind the unruly hair that was causing him so much trouble, he could see what looked like a busy camp, if a shabby one. Blanket rolls lay on the ground in a rough circle, some being rolled up to be stowed on packhorses. A lone one-man tent stood near the center of camp. Outside it, a man sat at a makeshift desk, writing.

All at once, the events of the night before began to come back to him. His terror as he had awoken midway down the tower wall, in the clutches of kidnappers. The man emerging from the guardhouse with a bloodied knife. His captors closing in around him. And then... nothing.

And then here, he guessed. His captors had succeeded in kidnapping him right out of his castle bedroom. Their purpose wasn't hard to guess. Halt had sat through many a history lesson with his tutor, Seamus. The history of the crown was rife with tales of princes and princesses kidnapped as bargaining chips for power or ransom. Some returned home safely.

Most didn't.

Halt closed his eyes, choosing for the moment not to dwell on the fact. Slowly, he became aware of a different pain in his neck, one that had been masked by the former bone-deep ache. This pain was from matching scratches or abrasions, one on either side of his neck. As if something had been torn away...

His wolf pendant. The silver chain that bore the crest of Clonmel's heir - the pendant that marked him as the Crown Prince. Clearly, his captors had torn it from him while he had been unconscious. He had never truly liked the pendant. It was a reminder of everything he was destined to become - a destiny that he had wished so often that he could escape. But now, strangely, he found himself missing the familiar weight around his neck.

It didn't matter. The pendant was gone now, perhaps to be included in some ransom note. To prove to his parents that their precious prince was truly in the hands of brigands and murderers.

His mind drifted to his parents. They would be distraught, by now - how could they not be? He knew he had not endeared himself to his parents by any means, but he did suspect they loved him, in their way, and at any rate the heir of Clonmel was missing. If he died here, far from home, the crown would fall to Ferris. How ironic. Halt had often felt the chance that had designated him as the firstborn, by those meager seven minutes, as a cruel mockery. He had never wanted the crown, Ferris had always craved it. Now, these bandits may very well correct matters.

He found himself wondering if these same thoughts were running through Ferris's head. They must be. Ferris's mind was never far from the injustice of those seven minutes. 

Unless Ferris was here too, he thought with a jolt. Their parents' bedroom was deep in the castle, surrounded by guards, and at any rate there had to be someone to send the ransom note to. Caitlyn's was a converted guest bedroom, on the other side of the castle. But Ferris's bed was not three feet from his own. If his captors had wanted one prince, chances were good that two would be even better. He craned his neck, looking around the small clearing for his brother, perhaps tied to another tree. He didn't see Ferris, but that didn't mean he wasn't here.

A memory stole into his mind, unbidden. As young children, he and Ferris had developed an elaborate communication system based on different whistling patterns. They had been close, once, Halt reflected. Once, they had simply been two small boys, only concerned with getting into mischief. 

Some of these signals were badly imitated bird calls, others were just patterns of notes. They had used it to send "secret messages" to each other from across the courtyard - and once, across a room crowded with dignitaries. Their father had banned the system after that - more precisely, he had told them "for the love of all that's holy, stop that shrieking noise".

Halt found he had forgotten all but the most basic of their signals, but he did remember the signal that had begun all of their conversations: "are you there?"

He took a deep breath, wet his lips, and let out a piercing whistle - three ascending notes. He waited, listening, for the answer - the same three notes, in descending order - but it didn't come. He repeated the pattern, louder. 

Finally, his whistling provoked a response, but it wasn't the one Halt had hoped for. The man at the desk looked up from his writing and eyed Halt for a minute or so. Halt froze. Then, the man beckoned to one of the men nearest him, and his voice, terrifyingly calm, carried clearly to where Halt was sitting. 

"If that boy tries to signal for help again, or if he tries to escape, shoot him through the left calf."

Trying to still his thundering heartbeat, Halt sank into a stoic silence. It didn’t matter, he told himself. He didn't think Ferris was here anyway.

~oOo~


	6. Chapter 6

Pritchard was bent over a set of tracks on the ground, trying to decide what the men had been dragging, when he felt what he had been dreading - the first few drops of rain hitting the back of his neck. Before long, the drops were falling thick and fast, with no promise of letting up anytime soon.

Every drop washing out the tracks a little more.

“That’s the last thing we need,” Pritchard muttered to his horse, Kieran. “And every minute we waste trying to read what’s left, the further away those brigands get.”

_You still haven’t admitted why you’re so bent out of shape about this whole matter._

Pritchard considered his words before responding.

“Well, there’s a sixteen-year-old boy’s life at stake, for starters,” he said.

_Yes, there is. But... not to be callous, but there’s even more at stake, and you know it._

“Well, the people have known for years that the monarchy here in Clonmel is weak. But when a gang of men can steal the Crown Prince right out of his bed, and the King simply caves to their demands, you know you’re not far from the end. If Clonmel descends into anarchy, the people will suffer.” Finally deciding that there was nothing more to be gained from the tracks at his feet, Pritchard mounted and set off down the trail once more.

_Yes... and..._

“And? What do you mean, _and?_ Does the word _anarchy_ mean nothing to you, Kieran?” Pritchard stared, wondering not for the first time if his horse had finally lost his mind.

_I mean that there’s also Araluen to consider._

There was silence for a few seconds before Pritchard responded. “What about it?”

_If Clonmel does fall to anarchy, it opens up a power vacuum for one of the other five kings to fill. And then you have a king who has just doubled his power, hungry for more conquest - right on the doorstep of Araluen. You mean to say this hasn’t even crossed your mind?_

Again, there was a pause before Pritchard spoke. “We don’t live in Araluen anymore, Kieran.”

He waited, but for the first time Pritchard could remember, Kieran chose not to answer.

“All I want is to keep the people here safe,” Pritchard said. “Safe from bandits, safe from wolves, safe from the suffering that anarchy can cause. And safe from vicious kidnappers, teenage princes included.”

After a minute, he added, “And if it happens to keep the people of Araluen safe as well... I can’t be blamed for that, can I?”

 _You old fraud,_ came Kieran’s accusing voice.

A slow smile slipped over the old Ranger’s face, and he accepted the charge. There really wasn’t much he could say against it.

~oOo~

It didn’t take long for the King to realize his copy of the report was missing. 

Even in the midst of the chaos that broke out, Ferris did see his sister reappear from behind a curtain - even, for the first time, catching a glimpse of the passage behind it. It didn’t take much to put two and two together, and despite their tutor’s long-held opinion that Halt was “the sharp one,” Ferris was far from stupid.

Later in the evening, once they had finally been dismissed to their rooms - Ferris noticed his window had been filled with stone and mortar - the old man’s words were still ringing through Ferris’s mind. “ _There’s nothing stopping them from killing your son, or using him as a path to the throne!_ ”

Ferris’s hands clenched into fists. _My brother is no one’s path to the throne._

The Ranger was on his way, now. Soon enough, he would be onto the kidnapper’s trail.

Slowly, Ferris pulled a box from beneath his bed and took out something he had long kept hidden, hating the thought of using it, hating the thought of letting it go. He slipped it into a bag, and stared at it for a long time. Then he continued to pack.

Secret passages or no secret passages, Caitlyn wasn’t the only one who knew how to sneak out. 

And when Ferris’s turn came, he would be ready.

~oOo~


	7. Chapter 7

The sun crested over a nearby hill as Pritchard and Kieran reached the bandit’s first camp.

There was no trace of a fire, not even a cold pile of ashes - the bandits had needed a few hours’ rest and were wary of their pursuers. In fact, an untrained eye might not have thought there had been a camp here at all - but Pritchard’s eyes were anything but untrained. Impressions in the grassy earth where a dozen men had slept, traces of a cold meal hastily eaten, holes in the earth where a small tent was pitched - these clues sketched out answers to many of the questions that had plagued his mind.

But not all.

Pritchard’s eyes roved about the camp, searching for clues of the young prince. Their captive.

There weren’t many ways to restrain a prisoner in a small camp like this, and Pritchard knew the signs of most of them. Above all, he needed to know whether young Cathán Niall had still been with the bandits to be restrained in the first place - the bandits may have simply killed the prince outright, or he could be following a mere branch-off of the main party.

He spotted a slender tree, not far from the edge of the camp. On a hunch, strode towards it, and was rewarded by the sight of trampled earth and deep indentations around the base. Inspecting the bark on the back of the tree, he spotted what could be fibers from rough cords.

There was something else, too. Someone had used one of the plentiful twigs scattered around the tree’s base to sketch a simple, crude drawing into the sandy earth behind the tree. Pritchard was glad he hadn’t stepped on the drawing as he bent to examine it.

At first, he could make neither head nor tail of it. It looked a little like a big, misshapen capital M with a small circle above it, all inside a larger circle. He craned his head, trying to see the drawing from the angle its artist would have intended - for surely its artist could have been none other than the prince, tied to this tree, attempting to leave a sign for those who might follow.

Crude as it was, the shapes reminded Pritchard of something, and he chased the thought deep into his memory, trying to discover what it had been. Finally, it came clear: the silver pendant the King had been holding. The pendant that had come with the ransom note. Shaped like the image of a wild wolf howling at a full moon.

The crest of the heir to the throne of Clonmel. Here it was, etched into the sand. A symbol that the commoners of Clonmel would not use lightly - an unmistakable message to those who grasped its meaning: “The prince was here, and needs help.”

To Pritchard, the sign had an even more hopeful meaning: the Prince was here, less than a day and a half ago - alive, and in full possession of his wits.

All Pritchard had to do was catch up while that remained the case.

~oOo~

A messenger knocked nervously at the door of his superior’s chamber, hoping it was good news that he was carrying. A voice bade him enter, and with a brief explanation, he handed the sealed pigeon’s message to his superior.

“The goods are secured. En route to your location.”

His superior smiled, which did little to ease the messenger’s nerves. As he and his compatriots knew, a smile from their leader could often be more dangerous than a scowl.

“Brendan has succeeded,” said his superior briefly. “As I said he would.”

The messenger left as soon as he was dismissed, glad to have kept his life. For now.

~oOo~


	8. Chapter 8

Not long after he left the camp, Pritchard felt it. A prickling at the back of his neck, perhaps, or a barely-heard sound that was out of place among his surroundings. Maybe it was that Kieran seemed slightly uneasy, though he had no solid reason yet to alert his rider. Or maybe there was a more mysterious explanation, a sixth sense that horse and Ranger shared.

Someone was following him.

He had been riding for some time near the edge of a small forest, due south - following the tracks left by the bandits. Now, Pritchard waited until he had crested a small hill, affording him some cover, before swerving into the treeline. He slipped off Kieran and led him to a sheltered spot, signalling him to be silent before slipping silently through the undergrowth to a hiding spot of his own - one that afforded him a view of the trail he had been following - and pulled his cowl over his head. Unslinging his longbow, he nocked an arrow to the string but did not draw it.

And waited.

Minutes passed before he heard them. The soft thuds of hoofbeats against the sandy earth. Before long, a hooded figure on a bay horse crested the small hill. The rider - a small man, Pritchard noticed - pulled his horse to a stop and scanned the path ahead, as though trying to see where his quarry had gone. After a moment, his gaze shifted to the forest, searching. In that moment, as he saw the face beneath the hood, Pritchard was surprised to see that his pursuer was only a boy. Perhaps sixteen years old, with dark hair - and a face that struck a chord within Pritchard’s memory.

Was it possible that this was the Crown Prince?

Pritchard’s mind raced, roving over the details of the tracks he was still following. There had been no indication of any kind of escape, and the tracks were too fresh to suggest young Cathán Niall had escaped and doubled back since then.

No, this boy could only have come from behind. With the thought came the memory of the stormy-faced boy he had seen in the conference room. The missing prince’s twin brother, Ferris.

Even as Pritchard placed him, the boy slipped off his horse, tethered him to a tree root, and slowly stepped into the forest. As he watched the boy’s clumsy attempts at remaining unseen, watched him wince at every snapped branch under his feet, a memory sprang into Pritchard’s mind, unbidden. A lively redheaded boy, always laughing, always joking. So uncannily skilled at moving without being seen - and above all, without being heard. As more and more of the memories surfaced, Pritchard felt his eyes begin to sting. Quickly, he shoved the memories back down in his mind, forcing himself to focus on the matter at hand.

Young Prince Ferris had followed him from the palace. This development could result in a host of problems - or perhaps it could give him the edge he needed to find Clonmel’s heir.

At present, however, the young prince was making a very serious mistake. He was trying to sneak up on a Ranger.

The corner of Pritchard’s mouth turned up in a grin.

Something would have to be done about that.

~oOo~

Ferris was nervous. He didn’t spend much time in forests - that was best left to Halt, with his hatred of court affairs and diplomatic meetings and his weird need to be alone so much of the time.

This place was creepy.

He wondered why he had come at all. Not that it had been difficult - not once the insufferable evening in the conference room had drawn to a close, and their father had finally dismissed them. It hadn’t been hard to convince his bodyguard that he could walk himself to his room - that he needed just a few minutes to himself, to think - especially since his _twin brother_ had been taken, since he felt like a part of himself was missing, blah, blah, blah. Ferris had always been good at convincing people of whatever was necessary to achieve his goals.

Nor had it been hard, once he had retrieved what he needed and slipped down the passageways to the stables, to climb in through a back window and find his horse. After that, he had simply ridden through the front gates - the guards had tried to stop him, but they couldn’t risk hurting him, and eventually they had to dive out of the way. And as Ferris well knew, with nearly all of the castle guard out searching for traces of Halt and protecting the castle from further attack, they would not be able to gather enough men to stop him until he was well on his way.

Besides, what was the disappearance of a prince compared to that of a crown prince, anyway, Ferris thought bitterly. They’d hardly care that he’d gone, and if they did - and if this afternoon had been any indication - the King would hardly do more than the bare minimum to get him back.

Which would leave Ferris free to follow the old man. The Ranger. To _do_ something. To find some way to quell those words that rang through his mind, over and over.

“There’s nothing stopping them from using him as a path to the throne!”

_My brother is no one’s path to the throne._

Ferris was startled out of his burning thoughts by a flash of shiny black up ahead. As his eyes continued to adjust to the dimness of the forest, he realized it was the Ranger’s dark little horse, riderless and standing in the shadow of a clump of trees. Surely if the horse was here, he thought, the Ranger couldn’t be far.

He decided stealth was the best course of action, and began picking his way carefully towards the little horse. He thought he was doing a pretty good job of it - darting quickly, if jerkily, from one patch of cover to the next - and soon he was almost close enough to reach out and touch the horse’s muzzle, when-

A powerful force seemed to seize him by the back of his collar. Before he quite knew what was happening, Ferris was flying through the air, and then making a most undignified landing in a small stream.

“It’s really a very bad idea, sneaking up on a Ranger,” came a voice from behind him. Cursing, Ferris scrambled around to face whoever had spoken. He was just in time to see the Ranger’s white-bearded face emerge from the shadows by the stream. To Ferris’s chagrin, he saw that the man was grinning.  
  
“Good morning,” he said. “My name is Pritchard and it’s time we had a chat.”

~oOo~

Halt was on horseback, his hands tied to the saddle horn and his horse tethered to the one in front of him - which happened to be Brendan’s. When his captors first broke camp, he had half expected to be forced to stumble along behind a horse. But no - his captors needed speed, and slow, stumbling prisoners made for bad getaways.

His head felt clearer than it had the day before, the pain of his concussion having receded some. He took advantage of the fact as well as he could, attempting to take stock of his surroundings. 

They were heading south. They probably had been since they’d left Dun Kilty. Forsaking any known paths or roads, their leader had led them cross-country, consulting a map every now and then. Halt didn’t know what their destination might be, but he had a feeling things would only get more unpleasant for him when they arrived.

Try as he might, however, Halt couldn’t get a clear view of the map from his position. He tried nudging his pony with his knees, trying to steer it to a better vantage point, but Brendan noticed the tug on the tether and told him sharply to leave off.

Which brought him to another point. The more he heard Brendan speak, the surer he became of the man’s origins. His accent sounded like that of Clonmel, although it was different than that of the nobles or working class around Dun Kilty. He spoke more like the men from the coastal towns that sometimes came to the surrounding villages to trade for supplies. This was not the case for all of his men. Some spoke like Brendan, whereas others had accents more like those he was used to. And a few - especially one or two who Brendan seemed to speak to frequently, in lowered tones - spoke with an accent Halt hadn’t heard more than once or twice before. Only when nobles from another country came to the court. Halt struggled to narrow it down in his mind. Celtica? No. Gallica? Certainly not.

Araluen. These men had to be Araluens. Halt turned the information over and over in his mind, trying to puzzle out what it meant. Could his kidnapping be some kind of plot by a foreign power? Or were these men simply more fugitives from the law, seeking to use their share of his ransom to make a new start?

He was jostled out of his thoughts - literally - by a square-jawed man elbowing him hard in the side, nearly knocking him off balance. 

“That’s for that trick you pulled on the wall,” he hissed. “Brendan had me flogged for that, so he did.”

Halt sucked in a choking breath, trying to replace the air that had been knocked out of his lungs. “If it’s an apology you’re after, you’re not going to get it,” he said. “What did you expect me to do? Lie there like a rag doll and let you kidnap me?” 

It was a rash thing to say, but Halt had never been one to beat around the bush. It was also the wrong thing to say. 

“A rag doll is _exactly_ what you’re going to be when I’m through with you!” snarled the man. He hauled back his arm, wincing as he did so, and Halt braced himself for a blow.

“Dennis!" said Brendan. “Back off - or was yesterday’s warning not enough for you?”

Dennis scowled, and his arm dropped to his side. He pointed a thick finger in Halt’s face. “Don’t fall asleep, little prince,” he whispered as he pulled back in the line. “Sooner or later, I’m going to make you pay.”

Halt’s hair prickled, but he was determined not to show fear to this bully. Staring stolidly ahead of him, he amended his earlier thought.

Wherever they were going, it looked like things were going to get more unpleasant for him well before they arrived.

~oOo~


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to @braigwen_s and @Ink_fall_ing for beta-ing most of this chapter!

Ferris grimaced, swatting at a fly for what must have been the twentieth time that morning. “They’re everywhere,” he groused to his companion, the Ranger. Or at least, to his back. “If it’s not the flies, it’s the mosquitoes - and both of them large as wasps.”

The Ranger didn’t answer. Ignoring Ferris seemed to be his favorite means of conversation. Oh, it hadn’t been at first. After nearly drowning him in a raging river, the Ranger and Ferris had had that “chat” - largely consisting of Ferris telling the old man everything he could about Halt’s disappearance. Where his and Halt’s bedroom was situated in the castle, a little about the guard rotations, which of the five kingdoms Clonmel was closest to war with - that sort of thing. From what he could gather from the Ranger’s expression, only a small fraction of the information had been useful.

Perhaps that was why he’d taken to treating Ferris like some kind of peasant. The night before, the old man had required Ferris to rub down, feed, and water his horse, even before he himself received any refreshment. Ferris had been ready to ignore the order and have a bite to eat first anyway - but something in the old man’s face had sent him scrambling to do as he was told.

Then there was the matter of watches. Pritchard had refused to stop at all until long after dusk. That, at least, Ferris could understand - this was a chase after all - but then the old man had woken him up at an ungodly hour of the night to “take watch.” Watch for _what,_ Ferris wanted to know - it wasn’t like the bandits were the ones chasing _them._ Try as he might, he hadn’t been able to keep his eyes open for more than half an hour. The Ranger had been furious upon awakening to find Ferris asleep - even though, as Ferris continued to point out, the fact that nothing had happened only proved his point that watching had been unnecessary in the first place.

He’d known that life in the wild wouldn’t be the same as his pampered castle life, but somehow it had managed to surpass all his expectations, in the worst possible way. He wondered, again, why he had decided to come at all.

Almost instantly, the guilt that always followed the thought had wrapped around him again. Halt was out there somewhere. A prisoner. Even more uncomfortable and mistreated than Ferris was. In danger. It was only by the chance of those seven minutes that it wasn’t Ferris out there, in the hands of bandits.

Those short, insignificant seven minutes.

Again, that mysterious, ugly feeling began to seep from beneath his guilt and worry. Ferris dug deep into his memory, reaching for the iron-hard resolve that had driven him to follow the Ranger.

_My brother is no one’s path to the throne._

But…

The words still didn’t answer the question as to why _he_ was here. What could he, Ferris, hope to do against a gang of armed men? Armed men who had killed nearly a dozen guards and carried off the Crown Prince from his own bedroom?

Eventually, the old man had the same question.

~oOo~

The next time the Prince gave vent to a slew of complaints, Pritchard made a decision. He reigned in Kieran until he was riding side-by-side with the young man and turned to face him. After a moment to collect his thoughts, he spoke.

“Why are you here, Ferris?”

Ferris paled at the question, and his eyes slid away from the Ranger’s. Too late, he tried to cover his reaction with a sudden burst of anger.  
  
“The proper mode of address is ‘Your Highness,’” he said. “You are speaking to your Prince.”

“Excuse me, Your Highness,” said Pritchard. His voice was polite enough, but Ferris caught a dangerous glint in his eyes. “But if you wanted company who would kneel and scrape in your presence, you should have stayed in your fancy castle. Which brings me back to my question. Why are you here?”

Again, Ferris dropped his eyes. Finally, he spoke, so low that Pritchard could hardly hear him.  
  
“I want to find my brother.”

“Of course you do,” the Ranger said. “That’s only to be expected - although actually following through with it and coming after me, that did take some pluck. But that’s not the point.” Pritchard caught Ferris’s gaze, making sure he had the boy’s attention. His next words were hard, though the voice that delivered them was not unkind. “Don’t you see that you’re liable to be more of a hindrance than a help? You’re not used to this life, especially not on a desperate chase - that much, you’ve made clear. You don’t know much more about the kidnapping than I do. You don’t even have a weapon.”

As Pritchard had spoken, Ferris’s face had flushed, and at this last statement his head had snapped up, and he scrambled to reach something in one of the saddlebags - the item he had taken from his room just before leaving. “I do have a weapon,” he said. “I’ve got this.” Finally, he found what he was looking for and thrust it out to the Ranger, as if daring him to take it.

Gingerly, Pritchard took the small glass bottle. It was filled with a thick, cloudy liquid, its label covered in spidery writing. Pritchard brought it closer to examine the words, before turning sharply to face the Prince once more.

“Ferris, this is poison,” he said grimly. “A very potent one.”

“I know that,” retorted Ferris. “I told you, it’s a weapon.”

“A useful weapon, to be sure,” said Pritchard, “if you plan to walk up to the bandits and offer them a drink out of your bottle. I’m sure they’ll trust you immediately and toast your good health.”

“No! I’m not an idiot!” said Ferris angrily. “I thought- maybe if we could get close enough, we could find some way to slip it into their food or water supply.”

But Pritchard was already shaking his head. “You’d probably be dead before they let you get that close,” he said. “And even if you did manage to get it where you wanted it, you’d poison your brother along with the rest of them.”

“Maybe not,” Ferris said. “We could get him out before then, or - or send him a message somehow.”

“It’s a risky plan,” said Pritchard. “Too many variables. We can keep thinking about it though… who knows? If you don’t mind, I’ll hold onto this bottle for you - I don’t want to lose track of it.” 

Ferris’s eyes narrowed, but after a long moment, he nodded.

“Good,” said Pritchard, tucking the poison securely into his pack. He took a deep breath. 

“Look, Prince. Having another set of eyes and hands could be useful. But not if you’re going to be complaining every step of the way, and not if you can’t pull your weight. You’ll have to listen to what I tell you. You’ll have to take your watch. And you’ll have to prepare for when we meet those bandits - and it’ll take all you’ve got. If you can’t do that, you can turn around and find your way back to Dun Kilty right now.”

Ferris’s face hardened.

_My brother is no one’s path to the throne._

“I can do it,” he said.

Pritchard stared at his face for a long time, then nodded.

“I’ll hold you to that, then,” he said.

~oOo~

By the time Brendan called a halt for the night, Halt’s head had resumed its dull pounding, and his hands had become numb and cold from the tight bonds. He struggled to register his surroundings as someone fumbled to get the cords untied before pulling him roughly from the saddle. Felt an exhaustion-dulled swell of fear as a knife was pressed against his neck to discourage any struggle, removed only once he was again tied to a tree at the edge of the camp.

It felt like it had been a lifetime since he had seen a friendly face. Since he had had a single moment free from pain and weariness. Could it really have been only days ago?

Halt squeezed his eyes shut, trying to still both his whirling thoughts and the pain that accompanied them. He had to keep a level head. He had to gather all the information he could. He had to find a way to escape.

At last, he opened his eyes again and cautiously raised his head, scanning the camp around him. Brendan was talking to the small group of men who Halt had nicknamed the advisory board - the two Araluens among them. The rest of his captors were setting out their simple camp, some chewing on scraps of beef jerky. No one thought to offer any to their prisoner - in fact, Halt hadn’t eaten anything since midday. But with the pain in his head making his stomach roll, Halt found he didn’t really care.

As the last vestiges of daylight faded from the sky, more and more of the men lay down to rest, some laying out bedrolls, others simply rolling themselves in their cloaks. Tied to his tree, Halt tried to find a comfortable position to sleep in, though by now he knew from experience that there was none. Experimentally, he tested the knots - as he did every evening - but found them to be discouragingly solid. Eventually he gave up on trying to stretch out and simply leaned against the tree, muttering a string of impressively creative curses.

Before long, all of the men were asleep except the one who had been assigned first watch. Halt could just make him out sitting on a log, but he couldn’t see the man’s face.

Something prickled in the back of Halt’s mind, some sixth sense warning him that something here wasn’t right. Anxiety stirred uneasily in his chest, and he made an effort to remain as still and silent as possible - a skill he had perfected after years of practice making himself invisible throughout his life in the castle.

This time, though, he had a sinking feeling that it wouldn’t help.

After what seemed like an eternity to Halt, watching from his tree, the man set to watch rose from his log and peered around at his companions, confirming that they were truly asleep. Then he turned and began picking his way towards Halt’s tree, and the faint light from the moon confirmed what Halt had been dreading all along.

It was Dennis.

~oOo~


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to @Pokegeek151 for beta-ing this chapter!

Halt’s heart pounded, but he fought back the rising panic and began struggling furiously. It didn’t take a genius to calculate that his odds of surviving a confrontation with Dennis while tied to a tree were vanishingly small. As before, there was almost no slack in the ropes, and the knots showed no sign of giving way. His efforts to reach the knots with his fingers were also doomed to failure.

Finally, as Dennis’s approaching figure grew ever nearer, Halt began desperately sawing the ropes against the rough bark of the tree. It was the only thing he could do. He was tearing up the skin on his arms and wrists and hands. He didn’t care. 

He felt one of the strands making up the length of rope that joined his hands begin to weaken, then snap altogether. But it was too late. Dennis was only a few strides away, his face full of fury. Without any warning, he stomped a boot down on Halt’s outstretched foot - bare, as it had been since the night he was taken. Not hard enough to break bone, but hard enough that Halt couldn’t bite back a yelp.

“None of that,” hissed Dennis. “You don’t want to wake Brendan. I’d have to tell him how I found you trying to escape - and how you got injured when I stopped you from getting away. After all, I wouldn’t be so stupid as to let it happen a second time…” He bore down hard on Halt’s foot. “Would I?”

Halt refused to be intimidated. Refused to even look at Dennis. He kept on doggedly sawing at the ropes, clenching his teeth against his burning arms and aching foot. He knew it was his only chance. Another strand snapped.

“Stop that,” said Dennis, aiming a savage kick at Halt’s ribs. That time, Halt did feel something crack, and again he let out a stifled cry. Still, he didn’t stop. “You actually _are_ trying to escape, aren’t you, you little-” Dennis kicked Halt again. “Just you wait, little prince. There won’t be anywhere to run once you’re on board. Maybe I should teach you a lesson in the meantime, huh? Just like Brendan did to me.”

Something glittered in Dennis’s hand, but Halt didn’t have time to see what it was before the last strand gave way. Instantly he dove to the side. The movement may have saved his life - the knife that had been aimed at his chest instead came slashing across his upper arm. White-hot pain lanced through Halt - but, meeting no real resistance, Dennis had stumbled forward, freeing Halt’s foot.

Dennis roared in anger and swung at Halt again, but this time Halt was able to roll out of the way. Doing so made every pain in him rise to a crescendo - _arm ribs foot head._ Through the miasma of pain he heard an ugly _thwack_ , just as Dennis’s cry cut off sharply.

Footsteps. Someone bending over him even as his efforts to get away grew weaker. Dennis? No… Brendan. Terror reawakened in him even as his strength continued to ebb. Something warm was running down his arm.

Brendan’s head disappeared from Halt’s vision, leaving him gazing up at the stars.

God, so many stars.

More voices joined in the chaos, saying words like _healer_ and _town_ , and Halt just wanted them to go _away._ They were making him hurt. _Arm ribs head._

Someone was pressing something hard onto his upper arm, tying something around it, and it _hurt_ . Halt tried to rouse himself, to fight whoever it was off, he had just gotten free and already they were - _ohh. Bandages?_

A voice - Brendan? Saying something to the others. “Never mind him, he’s dead.” Who was dead? Halt? Was Halt dead? He couldn’t be. Dead wouldn’t hurt this much. _Arm. Ribs. Head._

Then someone was lifting him, and the world tilted, and Halt had just enough time to think, _Ferris, looks like you’ll be getting those seven minutes back,_ before the pain and the men around him and their shouting voices all dissolved into oblivion.

~oOo~

Brendan cursed. He should have followed his first instincts and simply killed Dennis when he had first let the Prince escape. The man had been an incompetent fool from the start, and now their captive was badly injured. He looked from the bloodied knife to the gash in the Prince’s upper arm - where one of his men was trying to staunch the bleeding as the boy struggled feebly - and cursed again. They would have to get him to a healer.

“Hurry, damn you!” he said to the man. He beckoned to another, who was bending over Dennis. “Never mind him, he’s dead. Help Michael.”

He hurried to ready his horse - it was plain enough that they would need to get the Prince to a healer, and quickly. Briefly, it occurred to him that the Prince might be recognized, and it might be wise to have backup. “Cormac!” he shouted. “Get six men ready to go with me, as fast as you can.” 

He turned to see one of them - those insufferable Araluens - nearly at his elbow. “He’s not going to be pleased about this,” the man said. “Why can’t you control your own bloody men? The deal was that you bring the Prince alive, not in pieces.”

“You’re going to be the one in pieces if you don’t get out of my sight,” snarled Brendan. “Why don’t you focus on figuring out where the nearest town is and let me worry about the bloody deal?”

Despite his words to the Araluen, Brendan’s mind had already been racing ahead to where a healer could be found. They had passed near a town that afternoon, though they hadn’t entered it. A quick look at a map confirmed the town’s location. It was small, but perhaps large enough for a healer of some capacity. At any rate, it was the best chance they had.

He turned to the men still trying to staunch the Prince’s wounds, and together they lifted the semiconscious boy onto Brendan’s horse. Brendan mounted behind him.  
  
"Move out at first light - and wait for us at the ford," he said. Then, with a brief glance to see that Cormac’s men were ready, he thundered off into the night.

~oOo~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I live for your comments - thanks to everyone who has commented so far.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks so much to @littlekaracan for beta-ing this chapter! :D

~oOo~

Siobhan was making a cup of tea. She realized too late that she had heated more than twice enough water - forgetting that Connor was visiting his grandfather this weekend. It was then that she heard the hoofbeats.

As she looked out her window, her first instinct was to grab a weapon - these men were not the usual townsfolk that came to her door seeking help for a fever or a broken arm. These men were strangers - more than half a dozen strangers - and they had a dangerous look to them. Like a band of robbers. They pulled their horses to a stop in front of her door. Siobhan was already reaching for the weapon she always kept close by, and at a glance, confirmed the door was barred. Another look out the window, however, made her reconsider.

Most of the men had dismounted, and together, they were lifting something down from one of the horses.

No, not something. Someone. A boy, badly hurt - and from the looks of it, unconscious.

Siobhan unbarred her door. Robbers or not, these men had a child with them, a child who needed help.

“They told us you were a healer,” the man in charge was saying. He poured out a story of an accident that had occurred during plowing as Siobhan directed the men to lay the boy on the bed. He told of how the lad - his youngest son - had been plowing with a new and flighty horse, who had startled, taken off, and dragged the boy some hundred yards across the field before the men could quiet him. Told how the boy’s arm had been sliced by a scythe that had been dropped in the confusion. As Siobhan heard the story, she felt almost guilty for her earlier mistrust. These men had come to her for help, out of worry for their lad, and her first instinct had been to bar the door against them.

But as she began to examine the boy for herself, the guilt began to fade. As she began to treat his many injuries, her mistrust returned.

The broken ribs she carefully wrapped? Those had not been caused by the boy hitting a rock while he was dragged. No - Siobhan had seen injuries like these before. And she had seen marks like the ones left on the long, ragged and filthy linen shirt she had cut away - a nightshirt, she'd say if she didn't know better. Those marks were left by the toes of a heavy boot. Someone had kicked this boy, kicked him while he was down. Hard enough to break bone.

The deep bruising on the lad's foot, which she soaked in cold water to bring down the swelling - she was willing to bet those weren't caused by accident, either. 

But perhaps most sinister, and certainly the most dangerous, was the injury she had treated first - the laceration on the boy's upper arm, which she had cleaned and stitched and treated with warmweed salve to numb the pain and prevent infection before bandaging it. Could a scythe really have caused it?

Not likely.

Siobhan had drawn her conclusions already by the time she reached the boy’s wrists, but what she saw there made her heart skip a little. The skin was raw and irritated - and these marks, too, she knew the source of. What explanation could these criminals offer for this?

“What about these marks on his wrists?” she said, keeping her voice level. “Rope-burns, aren’t they?”

The man hesitated for just a second too long. Then he spoke. “Aye. We keep telling the lad not to wrap the lead around his wrists, but he don’t listen. ’S’why he got dragged for so long, too.”

It was a lie, and Siobhan knew it. But she kept her face impassive as she washed and bandaged those wounds, too, and pretended not to notice when the boy began to stir. Was he waking up? She had to find a way to get the father out of the room so she could learn from the boy what really happened. If she was correct in how he had gotten those wounds, she had made up her mind already to help him.

She finished her treatment as quickly as she could, hoping the boy wouldn’t wake up too soon. But to her dismay, the boy’s eyes slowly opened, and as memory seemed to flood back to him, his breathing hitched oddly.

Brendan’s head snapped up. He seemed to have heard the slight noise, although Siobhan’s form blocked his view of the boy. “What was that?” he demanded. “Is he waking up?”

“No,” said Siobhan, even as her eyes met the boy’s terrified gaze. “He’s just reacting to the pain in his sleep, I think.” She tried to convey in that glance a warning not to contradict her, and the boy seemed to understand. He shut his eyes again, and managed to settle his breathing.

Relieved, Siobhan turned back to the man. She had to buy the boy time to get away. “I suggest you and your friends find a place to stay,” she said. “He needs rest before he can travel again - at least a few days.”

“No,” said Brendan. “We must return home tonight - and the boy goes with us. If you’ve finished binding up his wounds, we’ll go now.”

 _No,_ thought Siobhan. She wasn’t going to let her one chance to help this boy slip away that easily. “I’m afraid that’s impossible,” she said. She cast about for some excuse that would sound plausible. “The boy can’t be moved until he wakes up, at the very least. The drug I gave him to send him to sleep may interfere with his heart if he’s moved around too much. It could kill him.”

Brendan cursed and slammed a fist against the doorframe. “How long until he wakes?” he asked.

“An hour at least, perhaps two,” said the healer. “There’s a very reputable tavern in the town where you all can eat while you wait -”

“No,” said Brendan. “We won’t leave him. If it’s all right with you, we’ll wait here in your yard.” Brendan’s voice was low and dangerous, and beneath the veneer of politeness it was plain that he wasn’t asking for permission.

“All right, then,” said Siobhan, feigning indifference. This would complicate things, but even the yard would get Brendan out of the room, which was what she needed. “Well, I need to recheck the wound on his arm. You and your friends are welcome to make yourselves as comfortable as you can. As I said, it may be two hours yet.”

There was a long silence. Finally, begrudgingly, Brendan grunted and left the cottage to bring the news to his men.

The second the door closed behind him, Siobhan turned to the boy. “Quick, lad,” she said. “With any luck, that pack of lies’ll have bought us a few minutes.”

The boy’s eyes widened. “What-?” he began, struggling to sit up.

Siobhan’s heart broke for him. “Child, you can never have got those wounds in a plowing accident. If someone at home has treated you so badly, I’m not letting you go back there to be half-killed again. I intend to help you get away. Is there anywhere else that might be safe for you to go?”

Confusion crossed the boy’s face, and for a moment he seemed like he was making his mind up about something. Finally, he began to speak. “He’s not my father,” he said earnestly. “I was kidnapped, three days ago. I’ve been a prisoner ever since.” Again he hesitated, before finally meeting her eyes. “I was taken from Dun Kilty. Is there any way we can get word to the King that I was here? His soldiers are looking for me.”

Alarm bells began to ring in Siobhan’s head. “The King, lad?” she said, the concern plain in her voice. “Why would the King’s soldiers be after a lad like you?”

The boy took a deep breath, and at his next words, Siobhan’s heart sank. “Because he’s my father,” the boy said slowly. “I’m the Crown Prince. I was kidnapped for ransom, or power, or ... I don’t know why. One of them got punished for almost letting me escape, and he retaliated by trying to kill me. Can you help me get away from them?”

“I’ll help you - you can rest easy on that point.” Siobhan reassured him. It was plain that the boy was even worse off than she had guessed. He was delusional. “Are you sure you’re feeling all right, lad?” she asked gently. “Did you get a knock on the head?”

“No! Well, yes, that first night, but that’s beside the point,” said the boy, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “I know it sounds crazy. But I really am the Crown Prince.” His hand went to his throat, then faltered. Frustration came over his face. “They took my pendant - to send with the ransom note, I guess - but you can still see the scratches from where they tore it away,” he said desperately. “I need you to believe me. Even if I can’t escape them, at least I can let my father’s soldiers know where they took me.”

Perhaps less at the scratches on his neck and more at the truth in his eyes, Siobhan finally began to believe him. She couldn’t help it. As she reflected later, the boy had had a very honest face. “None of that talk,” she said tartly. “You’re going to escape those scoundrels, all right. And I’ll help you - Crown Prince or no.”  
  


~oOo~


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to @Ink_fall_ing and @littlekaracan for their invaluable help on this chapter!

~oOo~

  
To Halt and Siobhan’s relief, Brendan settled down with the rest of his men instead of immediately heading back to the cottage. “That’ll give us some time to plan, Highness,” said Siobhan, stepping back from the window. Halt winced.

“Please don’t call me Highness. The folks I like just call me Halt.”

“All right then, young Halt,” Siobhan smiled, opening a closet. "Also - I’m sorry that I had to cut up your shirt. You know, if I didn’t know any better, I would say it looked like the nightshirt my Connor wears to bed, just fancier. I may never understand the ins and outs of court fashion.”

“It... was a nightshirt,” said Halt slowly. “They kidnapped me in the middle of the night. Right out of my bed. Didn’t wake up until we were halfway down the tower wall - can you believe that?”

The grin faded from Siobhan’s face, her eyes widening. For a moment, she stared at him, lost for words. Then something snapped, the shock replaced by fury. “Those... we’ll make them pay, lad. There won’t be anything left of those scum for the King’s soldiers to lock up.” She resumed her rummaging in the closet. “Here - you can take one of Connor's shirts, it might about fit you. My, but you’re a small one.”

“Thanks,” said Halt, a little wryly. He knew he wasn’t the tallest person for his age. Siobhan helped him into the simple linen shirt, Halt’s movements made clumsy by his injuries. The shirt was perhaps the most common thing he had ever worn, but Halt was grateful to get it and found it surprisingly comfortable.

With what little time time they had before Brendan or one of his men returned, the two began to consider their options. The only window on the ground floor faced the same way as the door, and so wasn’t an option for a stealthy escape. There was a back door, but as Siobhan explained, it squeaked dreadfully.

“I’d considered oiling it, you know,” she told Halt, “but I thought it might come in handy if there were ever anyone trying to break in that way. You’ll never get out that way without being heard, lad, and I’m sorry for that.”

“Get out - you mean, by myself?” Halt asked. “Are you not coming with me?”

“No, laddie - it’d be hard enough for you to get away without being seen, and the more I can be seen through the window bustling about, the more lead you’ll have.”

“But they’ll realize I’m gone eventually,” said Halt. “And then they’ll come in here, mad as hornets. I’m not leaving you to face them all alone.”

“Don’t worry about me, lad,” said Siobhan. “There are only six of them, after all. But neither do I have the intention of letting them all get into the house at once. Better if I could pick them off out there in the yard. Easier to duck out of crossbow range, and harder for them to stay out of my line of fire.”

“Have you got a bow, then?” said Halt, perking up considerably.

“No, young Halt,” chuckled Siobhan. “Just a sling, and some good hard stones. If a healer’s going to be gathering herbs in the depths of the forest year after year, she’s got to have a way to fend off wild beasts.” She nodded at the sling where it sat on a nearby shelf as she spoke, and opened a drawer to reveal a pouch full of carefully chosen stones. “These brigands are a sight bigger than my usual targets - but they’ll just be that much harder to miss. That’s what I’ll do.” 

“And I’ll help you,” Halt said. “I’m not leaving you here to fight them alone. And besides, no matter how much of a lead I get, they’ll still come after me. The best thing we can do is cut the head off the snake, and we’ll never get a better chance than right now. Brendan here, with only six of his men. And we’ll have a better chance if we fight them together, won’t we?”

“We might,” said Siobhan. More than anything, she wanted the boy to get safely away. But she had to admit that his reasoning made sense, and her heart was touched by his courage. “What weapons do they train you with in Dun Kilty, lad?”

Halt hesitated a moment. “I was trained with the sword, a bit. But to be honest, I was always much better with the longbow.”

Siobhan smiled. “It’s not the first weapon that comes to mind for a Prince,” she said, before growing serious. “There, I’m afraid I cannot help you. All I have is that small hunting bow, and even that’d be foolish to use. You might not be feeling that wound to your arm just now, but it’s a serious one, and you’ll do yourself a mischief if you aren’t careful.”  
  
Halt frowned. “I’ll have to find some other way to make myself useful, then.”

“That’s the spirit!” said Siobhan. “The first thing to do will be to bar the door. Take that end of the table - but be careful of your ribs.” Together, they pushed the table in front of the back door, and a dresser in front of the front door.

And not a moment too soon, for that was all the time Siobhan and Halt were to have before they were forced to act. No sooner had the two finished their barricade work and returned to their places at the window than one of the bandits began heading up the walk.  
  
“What does he want?” Halt wondered aloud. The man wasn’t Brendan or Cormac - merely one of the men who had come with them - and there didn’t seem to be a particular reason for him to want to get inside.

“Doesn’t matter,” Siobhan muttered darkly, loading a stone into her sling. 

The reason, as they would never know, was that this man had gotten approval from Brendan to go and ask for something to eat. In any case, the first warning Brendan’s group got was a heavy stone smashing into the unfortunate bandit’s skull. And that was all it took for chaos to break loose.

The brigand leader’s initial shock lasted all of a few seconds before he had taken charge of the situation, barking orders to his men and ducking into what little cover was available in the yard.  
  
“Brendan’s got a crossbow,” Halt said to Siobhan. “He’s behind the horse trough - and he’s a dead shot.”

“Keep an eye on him,” she replied. “Let me know when to duck.”

Even as she spoke, two of Brendan’s men surged forward towards the barred door. Siobhan’s first stone sent one tumbling out of the saddle, and the fallen man’s rearing horse slowed the other just long enough for Siobhan to pick him off as well. 

As she rose to aim for the first shot, Brendan whipped off a crossbow shot. Halt’s warning shout came just in time for Siobhan to duck, the bolt passing harmlessly over their heads. Frustrated, Brendan grabbed another crossbow from one of his remaining three men, pushed the empty one at the man for him to reload, and waited for another opportunity to shoot.

The situation was drawing to an impasse, Halt realized. Half of Brendan’s men were dead - he couldn’t risk another wild charge at their barricade, but at the same time, every one of Siobhan’s sling shots provided Brendan a window in which to shoot. Something would have to give soon. 

~oOo~

“Hello, the cottage!”

Halt had been expecting the shout. Brendan had only three men left by now, and he would be ready to abandon his first strategy and try a new tack. Cautiously - ready to duck out of crossbow range at any moment - he and Siobhan raised themselves just enough to peer out the window at the bandits’ leader.

“What do you want?” Siobhan shouted. “Had enough yet?”

“Not quite.”

The answering shout came right away, and at the smug certainty in Brendan’s voice, Halt’s heart sank. 

They watched as Brendan signalled to someone out of their line of sight. Halt’s heart dropped even further as Cormac stepped into view, dragging a small boy with him and holding a knife to his throat.

“ _Connor?!_ ” Siobhan pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle her choked cry. Her fingers gripped Halt’s arm painfully. “That’s - that’s impossible, he’s not supposed to be - _they have my Connor!_ ”

Brendan’s grim smile widened. “Ah, yes. I thought this whelp might look familiar to you,” he called. “Cormac found him trying to get in the back door - too bad it was barred, eh?”

Halt felt sick. Cormac must have slipped away while he and Siobhan had been distracted by the bandit’s rush for the door.

Brendan turned back to the shaking boy. “Don’t worry,” he said, loud enough for Siobhan and Halt to hear him clearly. “Nobody has to get hurt today. Just so long as your mother sends out a friend of mine so we can have a chat. Just so long as your mother doesn’t _care more about a lad she met three hours ago than_ _her own son._ ” At the last few words, Brendan turned to face the cottage, his voice raised in anger. “But if that doesn’t happen - and _soon_ \- things are going to get ugly.”

“If you hurt _one hair on his head-_ ” Siobhan shouted. Brendan cut her off.

“You’re not in a position to be making threats right now,” he said. “If you don’t send that boy out in the next five minutes, this one gets a broken arm - for starters.” He paused to let his words sink in. “All you have to do is send that boy out here. As soon as we’re on our way, we’ll let your son go.”

As soon as Brendan said the words, Halt knew it was a lie. Once Brendan and his men had Halt and were well on their way out of town, they would never simply let a witness go. No - if given that opportunity, they would kill him.

But Halt also knew that Brendan wasn’t lying about hurting Connor. Brendan wouldn’t hesitate to break the boy’s arm, or worse, if it meant he got what he wanted. Siobhan was a good woman, and she didn’t deserve this cruel choice - handing a kid over to his kidnappers or risking the life of her own son. She couldn’t sit by and watch them hurt Connor - _Halt_ couldn’t sit by and watch them hurt Connor - and do nothing about it.

The best possible situation was one that got Connor released immediately - before the bandits hurt him, and before they got what they wanted. And there was only one way that would happen. 

Every ounce of will in him rebelled at the idea of becoming a prisoner again. But, even as he tried in vain to still his shaking limbs, he knew that he couldn’t live with himself if he did anything else.

“Brendan!” Halt called out, the name feeling strange in his mouth. He realized a second later that he had never spoken to the man directly before. “I’m going to give you what you want.”  
  
There was a long pause. Finally Brendan’s voice echoed back. “How’s that?”  
  
Halt swallowed hard. “If you let the boy go now... I’ll give myself up.”

When Brendan replied, his voice was cold. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, kid, but I’m not a fool. I’m not giving up my leverage.”

“And I’m not coming over there just so you can kill him,” said Halt. “You let him go first, and then I’ll come.”

Again there was a long silence. Then came Brendan’s voice. “Let me tell you what’s going to happen. I’m going to count to three, and then Cormac is going to let go of this boy. He’s going to walk very slowly to the house. If you don’t start walking the second I say three, if that woman raises her sling, or if either of you two boys takes one step out of line - in fact, if absolutely anything happens that I don’t like, I will shoot this boy in the back. And you know I don't miss."

Siobhan’s knuckles were turning white as she gripped the counter, her lips pressed into a thin line. She grasped Halt’s arm. “There has to be another way,” she said. “One where you’re both safe.”

Halt met her gaze, and was taken aback at the heartbreak he saw there. He was stunned by the realization that this woman, who had been a stranger only hours before, cared about him as much as he cared about her and her son. He willed himself not to show her how afraid she was. “They’ll kill him if I don’t go,” he said simply. “But they need me alive. I’ll - I’ll find some way to escape. Just get word to my father’s soldiers. Tell them I was here - tell them where to look.” Again Halt swallowed, hard. Trying to get rid of the sour taste that had filled his mouth.

“All right,” he shouted. “Start counting.”

~oOo~

Brendan watched as the two boys slowly exchanged places, his crossbow held at the ready. As he watched the Prince slowly close the distance between them, he couldn’t shake a disgruntled feeling. Something about the situation didn’t sit well with him, and it took him a minute to realize what it was.

For the first time, he had been forced to actually take notice of the Prince as a person instead of just a hostage. The boy hadn’t stopped causing trouble since the moment they had captured him - escape attempts, signalling for help, trying to get a look at Brendan's maps, and the trouble with Dennis - but until now, all of that hadn’t made him more than a hostage. It had merely made him a difficult hostage to hold onto. 

But this, holding a negotiation man-to-man - this was something new. And the fact that the Prince had given himself up just to protect these two strangers, instead of trying to run? That showed... character. Brendan didn’t want to know about the Prince’s character. It was easier to think of him as spoiled royalty, like the rest of the O’Carricks before him.

All of this put Brendan into a foul mood, and the fact that this little byplay had cost him more than half of his six men wasn’t helping. As the Prince drew nearer, Brendan resolved not to take any more chances with this slippery hostage. He caught the attention of one of his remaining men, who carried a small club. The moment the Prince reached their circle of horses, the man brought it down on the boy’s head, sending him senseless to the ground.

As he fell, Brendan heard a startled cry come from the cottage - the healer or her son - and turned to survey the house once more. The door was once again barricaded. Though his men had regained the Prince, these two witnesses were still out of their reach. That, too, irked Brendan - it wasn’t in his nature to leave loose ends. 

Evidently, his unofficial second-in-command had the same thought. As the rest of his men mounted and prepared to leave, Cormac nudged his horse up beside Brendan’s. “Should we kill the woman and boy? Leave no witnesses to -”

A split second after the words left his mouth, one last shot came whistling from the cottage’s window. The flying stone found its mark, crushing Cormac’s windpipe - just as a defiant shout came from the cottage. “You can try!”

Brendan signaled to his men to leave. His band had yet to even swing onto their true course, and there was no knowing how much or how little the Prince had even told the healer. Better to simply be on their way - to be far away from this place before any pursuers arrived. 

Besides... he had lost enough men for one day.

~oOo~


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to @littlekaracan for beta-ing this chapter!

“If you’re a Ranger of Araluen... what are you doing in Clonmel?”

Pritchard had known the question would come sooner or later. That once the young prince began to take notice of more than just himself, he would begin to wonder about his traveling companion. So it wasn’t too much of a surprise when Ferris finally spoke up, as the two stopped for a few hours’ rest. 

“I had to leave Araluen about a year ago,” he replied. “For a lot of reasons.”

But Ferris wasn’t going to be deterred that easily. “What kind of reasons?” he asked. “I haven’t joined forces with a fugitive criminal, have I?”

Pritchard paused, finding that, to his surprise, he felt less reluctant to talk about his past than he had for some time. Perhaps speaking about what had happened would release some of its hold on him, he thought.

“I was... targeted, along with many of my friends, by people in positions of political power. As a threat, not to our country, but to their own advancement. I was charged with crimes I did not commit. With treason, actually. And exiled.”

“Treason?” asked Ferris. “What were you supposed to have done?”

“It doesn’t really matter. None of it was true. It turns out that as a Ranger, having sworn loyalty to the Crown, it takes only a very little step out of line to constitute treason, and even less to fabricate the charge.” He sighed. “I would never break my oath, and... it pains me to have been forced to leave my home when she needed me so badly. But what's done is done." For a long moment, Pritchard stared into the fire, thinking about all he had left behind.

Eventually, the ghost of a smile came over his face. "But not all bad came of it. Like I told your father, Clonmel is my home now. I’ve found good people here, and it’s to keep good people safe that I’ve worked all these years. Not all of my friends were so lucky. Some are barely scraping by in other countries, some were even executed for crimes they didn’t commit. And of course, some are still there. Hunted.” Again, the old Ranger fell silent. For a while, talking about his own exile had helped, but the pang as he thought of those he had left behind was as painful as ever. _Leander, Berrigan, Farrel. Crowley..._

And then the prince was speaking again. Asking the question that hurt most, because its answer was so obvious - and so unreachable. “Would you go back? If you could? To help them?”

“They need me.” The words fell harder than Pritchard had meant them to. “But there’s no point to an ‘if’ when there’s a ‘return on pain of death’ barring its path.”

“Well...” said Ferris, “maybe we can find a way around that, somehow. My father is the King, after all. Perhaps he could make you... I don’t know, a royal ambassador or something - and send you to Araluen? This King Oswald couldn’t refuse you entry then. Refusing a royal ambassador is a grave insult. He wouldn’t want to risk war over a petty charge of treason.”

“That’s... certainly one idea, I suppose. But I’ve heard my diplomacy skills leave much to be desired.” Pritchard stared into the fire, the words bringing to mind days when the Ranger and Diplomatic Corps worked together in harmony, both at full strength. Before Morgarath. With an effort, he pulled his mind back to the present day and smiled ruefully. “Then, too, I fear the King has no great fondness for me just at present. I doubt he’s in the mood to make me his voice in Araluen.”

“Your diplomacy skills don’t matter so much, it’s the title that’s important,” said Ferris. “The main thing is for you to be able to get home. And as for my father - if we succeed, you’ll be the man that rescued the Crown Prince! He can hardly refuse you then!”

Some part of Pritchard registered that the logic made sense, but he could only manage a grunt in reply. He was caught on the first words, words that sounded so much like a description of the ruined Ranger Corps. _Skills don’t matter. It’s the title that’s important._ He knew the Prince didn’t mean it the same way - or did he? Maybe titles coming before skill was simply a way of life for the O’Carricks. It would certainly match up with what he’d seen so far. How long, then, before Araluen was as much of a disaster as Clonmel?

Pritchard was dragged from his thoughts as Ferris spoke again. Far, far too casually. 

“And if we don’t succeed... I’ll be the Crown Prince. And I can make you ambassador in a few years anyway.”

~oOo~

Slowly, the dark-cloaked man closed his fist around the crowded scrap of paper - the message he had received from his informant.

Brendan had come so close to failing him. Had nearly been undone, incompetent fool that he was, first by his lack of control over one of his men, and then by a sixteen year old boy and a woman armed only with a sling.

It was a wonder he had gotten the target back at all - and the message didn’t make clear how that happened. Or how many loose ends were left behind. 

At any rate, Brendan had proved himself unworthy of the reward he had been promised. The dark-cloaked man himself had no use for Dun Kilty - his own castle was famous for its beauty and its strategic position - but at any rate, he would never turn it over to someone so careless. Brendan could neither handle a dozen of his own men nor keep one step ahead of a teenaged boy. Clearly, he was no more fit to live in that castle than the useless O’Carricks that he’d be replacing. 

No. Once the dark-cloaked man brought Clonmel to its knees, he would have to find another lieutenant to oversee it for him. In the meantime, it wouldn’t do to have Brendan know of his displeasure - the prize he was bringing with him was too valuable, and the dark-cloaked man couldn’t afford to risk Brendan getting ideas of betraying him. Better to wait until the prince was safely in his clutches, his plans for conquest secure. Then, it would be a simple matter to double-cross the useless lieutenant who had brought him.

~oOo~


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to @littlekaracan for beta-ing this chapter!

~oOo~  
  


There was an early-morning chill in the air as the sun spilled over the simple campsite, picking out bits of dew on the grass. Casting light on a dozen clues that painted a story Pritchard had feared since the beginning.

The bandits had split up.

As he looked down at the diverging tracks - bent grasses, footprints, hoofmarks - Pritchard could feel their chances of rescuing the Prince diminishing.

He took a deep breath to help clear his head - to help him take a step back and view the problem rationally. He couldn’t just give up. The information that would lead him to the Prince was on the ground in front of him. _Search. Analyze. Reconstruct._ The steps were as familiar to Pritchard as a favorite song, and they wouldn’t fail him now.

Two parties, one larger than the other. The smaller party had branched off, headed due west, while the tracks of the larger headed southwest. These tracks were fresher, too, Pritchard noticed - their edges sharper and more defined than those left by the smaller party. 

“What can you tell from those marks?”

Ferris had dismounted, coming to look over Pritchard’s shoulder. Pritchard put a hand out to stop the Prince from inadvertently stepping on the tracks he was studying - it had happened a few times already. Turning the information he had gathered over in his mind, he answered.

“More than twenty four hours ago, several riders branched off from the main party, riding west. The rest of the bandits stayed here for a while before riding off southwest, several hours later.” He stepped back. "That makes us a little less than a day behind the larger party."

“Then we could catch up with them,” said Ferris.

“Maybe,” said Pritchard. “But we don’t know if the larger party has your brother. I’d give a lot to know why they split up.” He rose from where he had bent to examine the tracks, pulling out a map from Kieran’s saddlebags to confirm a sudden suspicion.

“There’s a village not far from here, due west. If I had to bet on it, I’d guess that’s where this smaller party was headed. The question is, why?”

“Maybe they needed supplies,” Ferris suggested.

Pritchard glanced at him. “It’s possible,” he said. “But if they were running low, why not angle toward the village to start with? They were heading due south, straight past it, and then something happened suddenly to make them change their minds.”

Ferris frowned. “Maybe... there was an accident that destroyed their supplies? They got burned, or dropped, or spoiled suddenly... or something?”

“If that’s what happened, there’s precious little evidence of it,” said Pritchard. “I think we can rule out an issue with the provisions. But _something_ happened here, and I mean to find out what it was.”

Pritchard looked around the campsite, searching for the tree he had grown accustomed to finding at each spot the bandits stopped. It didn’t take him long to find the one they were most likely to have chosen. The symbol he had found at the first campsite was foremost in his mind - somehow, he couldn’t shake the idea that he was likely to find the answers to this riddle near where the Prince had been kept.

And this time, he turned out to be right.

Around the tree, the tall grass and damp earth was trampled in odd patterns, clear even for Ferris to see. On the side facing away from the camp, the bark held not only rope fibers, but also traces of blood.

Pritchard’s heart skipped a beat as he spotted a stained and shredded length of rope a few feet away, all but hidden in the tall grass. Had the prince....? He lifted it from where it lay - but his study of it was interrupted by Ferris’s voice.

“Pritchard...?”

He turned to see the teenager kneeling by a patch of grass - grass whose blades were smeared an ominous reddish brown.

With a sinking heart, Pritchard mentally measured the distance from the bloodstained ground to the tree and the hoofmarks nearby. Analyzed the patterns of the trampled grass and earth. Turned over all of the information he had, trying to fit the pieces into a coherent narrative.

“I’d say there was a fight,” he said at last. “Someone - or a few someones - attacked your brother while he was tied to this tree.” Pritchard held up the shredded length of rope. “He managed to saw his way loose - ”

“He escaped?” said Ferris.

  
“I hoped that at first - but I don’t think so,” said Pritchard. “It’s hard to decipher exactly what happened during the entire attack, but towards the end he fell... here... and from the look of it, he didn’t rise by himself. He was lifted.”

“Was he...” Ferris’s voice trailed off, and he tried again. “Do you think he was killed?”

“No,” said Pritchard. “At least, there’s reason to hope he wasn’t. These hoofmarks cross by pretty close - they were lifting him onto the horse. I’d bet this attack is what prompted their sudden departure for the village. They were riding for a healer.” He looked the prince in the eyes, trying to reassure him. “Healers can only help the living.”

“So all you can tell me for sure is that he’s hurt,” said Ferris, his voice flat. “And you don’t even know how badly.”

“There’s only so much I can tell by tracks, Ferris,” said Pritchard gently. His voice hardened with resolution as he went on. “The best thing we can do is to catch up to him as soon as we can, and get him away from these monsters.”

This campsite looked fairly well abandoned, Pritchard thought. They weren’t planning on coming back here. Their best bet, then, was to follow the smaller party - the one that had the Prince.

“Let’s go.”

~oOo~

Ferris knew how much effort had been put into keeping track of the two of them. He had faint memories of being very young - babies, toddlers - and noticing how Halt always had a red woven band tied around one ankle, just in case the two were ever mixed up. Knew the subtle differences that allowed Caitlyn, after years of practice, to tell them apart at a glance. Had heard their parents say a thousand times that you could tell which twin it was, because Ferris brightened up the room when he walked in, whereas Halt brought thunderstorms in from outside. 

But none of these details could stop him from picturing any number of mixups that might have occurred anyway. It was perfectly possible. Maybe the two of them had been switched right at first, before the red band. Or perhaps a young and curious Crown Prince had found a way to get it untied - perhaps a tired nursemaid had stepped out for a brief break one day, and walked back in to find the band on the floor between two identical babies. Perhaps, not wanting to lose her job, she had simply picked a baby at random and replaced it. There was no reason why it couldn’t have happened.

And so the mixup had begun. Halt made no real attempt to hide how little he cared about matters of state, except, of course, for the times he cared too much. He had no sense of diplomacy or tact, had never grasped the fact that small injustices must sometimes be overlooked for the greater good. He didn’t have what it took to be King, and everyone knew it. Their parents had been hard put to quiet the rumors of Halt’s outbursts at certain royal advisors. And Ferris had heard them, sometimes, behind closed doors, musing over those seven minutes. Those insignificant seven minutes.

Ferris should be the Crown Prince. No matter which twin was born first, Ferris was the one who deserved it more. Everyone knew it. But the more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that this was because the throne _was_ his birthright. It had been stolen from him. An error, gone uncorrected through years of injustice, until finally the bandits breaking into the castle had taken the wrong boy. 

And now, there was every chance that the mixup would finally be righted.

 _NO!_ Ferris thought. _No, no no no no!_ What were these terrible thoughts? Why did they keep plaguing him? Even if Halt _wasn’t_ really the Crown Prince, he was still Ferris’s _brother!_ No one in his right mind would be thinking these kinds of things! Ferris was hoping with all of his might that Halt was still alive, and would stay that way. The bandits hadn’t killed him, the healer would fix everything, and Ferris and Pritchard would rescue Halt before anything else happened. No one was going to harm him further, or try to use him as some kind of political pawn.

 _My brother is no one’s path to the throne,_ Ferris thought. He pressed the words into his mind, willing them to take hold. But already there was another idea, bobbing to the surface of his thoughts.

_Because it was never his to start with._

_Shut up!_ he wanted to yell. This wasn’t the time for his personal jealousy of Halt. Halt was _hurt_ ! He might already be _dead_! This wasn’t about Ferris! So why couldn’t he stop thinking these things?

“Are you all right?”

Ferris started guiltily at the old Ranger’s voice. How much of his internal struggle had shown on his face?

“Yeah, I’m - I’m all right,” he said croakily. “Just... thinking.”

Pritchard eyed him for a moment, then his face softened. “We’re going to find him.”

Ferris’s throat tightened, but he managed an unsteady grin. “I know.”

~oOo~

Siobhan was no fool. She and Connor held information about the Crown Prince’s kidnapping. And though she might have thwarted the bandit’s initial plans to “leave no witnesses”, she wouldn’t put it past this Brendan to send someone back to eliminate them later. It all depended on how much he thought she knew.

So she had sent Connor back to his grandfather’s house, out of harm’s way - the boy would already be having nightmares for a long, long time, and Siobhan wasn’t about to let anything else happen to him.

She slept with her doors and windows barred and kept her sling near her pillow.

And when two horsemen had come riding up the path to her house, Siobhan took aim, ready to protect herself. Never mind that the taller one’s hair was whitened with age, and it took him longer than usual to dismount from his horse. Never mind that the other one was...

Was...

Once again, Siobhan unbarred her door.

~oOo~


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to @littlekaracan and @vilewile for beta-ing this chapter!

Slowly, Pritchard and Ferris crested one last hill - and then their destination lay plain before them. The tracks they had been following had led them to a small cottage, near the outskirts of an unassuming village on Pritchard’s map.

Perhaps it was the way the steady breeze had dropped to a soft flutter. Perhaps it was the sudden silence in the absence of hoofbeats as they pulled their horses to a stop. Perhaps it was the flicker of movement - all but imaginary - at the cottage’s front window. 

Whatever it was, Pritchard could swear there was a sense of foreboding in the air. Silently, he shrugged his longbow off his shoulder, ready to use if need be.

Something was about to happen here. 

Or perhaps it already had. 

He noted the patterns of tracks and stains on the ground - fragments of a story that would be invisible to one less skilled. Several possible explanations formed in his mind, and he mentally filed them away for future reference.

There was another flicker of movement at the window of the cottage, and Pritchard's hands moved to lay an arrow on the string. As he watched, a middle-aged woman opened the door of the cottage and came running towards... towards Ferris?

"You're all right!" she said. “I’ve been so worried.”

Ferris stepped back from the excited woman, bewildered - and as usual, the bewilderment turned into anger. 

“Who are you?” he demanded.

His harsh tone seemed to give the woman pause. “Lad? It’s me. It’s...”

The woman’s voice trailed off. Her gaze shifted from Ferris to Pritchard, then back to Ferris again. Something changed in her expression as his eyes slid away from hers.

It wasn’t difficult for Pritchard to put two and two together. "You've seen the Crown Prince."

"Indeed I have, that poor lad,” said the woman. “Seen him, and tended his wounds, and done my best to get a message to the King as he bade me, before those bandits took him away again."

Pritchard opened his mouth to ask another question, but Ferris beat him to it. "How badly was he hurt?"

"Nothing fatal - at least, not once I'd treated him. He had a knife-slash on his arm, and a dozen other minor injuries - bruises and scrapes, mostly. That slash was the worst of it, and though I treated it, it's liable to get infected if they're not being careful."

Pritchard felt a chill of worry at the prospect. “They have no reason to be careless,” he said, trying to reassure himself as much as Ferris. “They’ve gone to all this trouble to capture the Prince, and they took the risk to bring him here. I doubt they’d leave him to his injuries after all that.”

“If I’d had my way, they wouldn’t have the chance,” said Siobhan. “All I wanted was to help that boy get away from those criminals. And I almost did - but in the end, it was all for nothing.”

“Not for nothing,” said Pritchard. “We’re going to find him. And now we have a lead. Please, tell me what you know.”

~oOo~

Two days.

It was hard for Halt to believe it. That it had been only two days since the events at Siobhan’s house. It felt like it had been months.

He could remember the journey back - or, rather - he remembered a bouncing, jolting ride, slung over the horse of one of the fallen men. A ride that had seemed to last days instead of hours. Mostly, he remembered the crippling headache - which, even now, was still stabbing at him.

He remembered waiting for the others at the ford - chiefly because he was allowed to lie down instead of being tied to a tree. The thought had entered his mind to take advantage of the fact and try to escape. But his head was throbbing - and by now, so were his other injuries, the effects of Siobhan’s painkilling salves having worn off - and he found he didn’t have the strength. The rushing sounds of the river nearby had lulled him into a disturbed sleep, and when he awoke, the rest of the bandits were there, ready to set off once again.

Over the course of that day, as his brain had slowly grown clearer, Halt had replayed the events at Siobhan’s house again and again in his mind. He couldn’t help it. Couldn’t help wondering if he would have chosen differently if he could do it all again. 

But each time, the answer was the same. Halt had never had it in him to back down in front of bullies. And he had never been able to stand by and watch injustice happen - not when he had it in his power to stop it.

No. Halt knew that if he had a chance to do it again, he would have chosen the same, despite the cost. Despite the fact that he was a prisoner again. Despite each hour that dragged on in pain and fear. Despite the uncertainty of his future in the hands of dangerous men.

Men whose indifference towards him, he had noticed, was rapidly devolving into anger. Four men had been killed in the confrontation at Siobhan’s house, some of them friends of those still present. Then, too, each man still alive was conscious of the fact that it could just as easily have been him, had he been chosen to go with Brendan. And it wasn’t too hard for Halt to guess that they blamed him - him and his attempts to escape.

These were the thoughts uppermost in his mind as Brendan finally called the men to a stop for the night. Halt expected the extra roughness as his hands were untied from the saddle horn, expected the knife pressed against his neck. He didn’t expect the bandit to change the bandages on his arm - although this, too, was done with more roughness than was strictly necessary.

“Here,” said the man - Owen, Halt thought his name was - as he finished his task and handed Halt a scrap of beef jerky and a small piece of bread. “Though why we’re wasting food on you, I don’t know. I expect it’s not good enough for your high and mighty Highness anyway. None of us are good enough - you think we’re dumb, which is why you keep trying to escape, and you think we’re worthless, too, hmm?”

At Halt’s silence, Owen got closer, his voice lowering with anger. “If it was up to me, you’d see how little any of us here cares about your life,” he said. “You’re not in your palace any more, Prince. Out here, actions have consequences.”

“Why don’t you ask your friend Dennis about that?” said Halt. He was the one who had been kidnapped - as far as he was concerned, any remorse in this scenario would not be coming from him. He was determined not to be cowed by this man’s idle threats.

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so cocky, boy,” said Owen. “Brendan’s not so fond of you right now, not after what you pulled at that healer’s house - he might not be so quick to come to your defense this time.”

Halt snorted derisively. “He doesn’t have to like me for me to be an investment he’ll protect. You know that if you kill me, he’ll have your hide.” 

“I don’t have to kill you to make you wish you’d never been born,” growled Owen.

Halt smiled humorlessly. “Risky. I might just die on you anyway - I’m fragile.”

Halt knew he was playing with fire, but he was beginning to be past the point of caring - and he knew Owen wasn’t going to risk Brendan’s wrath just to make a point.

Owen seemed to be struggling to master his anger. Eventually, he settled for knocking the last of the jerky out of Halt’s hands before tying them behind the tree. “Dinner’s over.” 

Halt was loath to ask anything of Owen, but his head was pounding, and he usually had a chance to drink from a waterskin when the party stopped. “Could I have some water?”

Owen was already walking back towards the campfire, but Halt could still hear him as the man tossed his own words back at him.

“Why don’t you ask your friend Dennis about that?”

~oOo~

As he listened to the healer’s - Siobhan’s - account of the attack on the cottage, Pritchard found himself growing more and more amazed. 

Until now, all Pritchard had known about this boy Halt was that he was an O’Carrick. That his own twin brother, despite trekking into the wilds to save him, hardly seemed to have a good word to say about him. That beside him, Ferris - who Pritchard was still fairly certain he disliked - had a reputation of being “the good one”.

But family patterns had been broken before, and Ferris certainly wasn’t the most reliable witness. Pritchard reminded himself of these things as he listened to Siobhan’s story, which painted Halt in a very different light. Someone who had willingly given himself up to his kidnappers to save a boy he’d only just met.

“I tried to stop him,” Siobhan said. “I wanted to come up with some way for both of them to be safe. But he wouldn’t have it. He knew Brendan would have killed my son if he’d gotten what he wanted - when Halt called him on it, Brendan didn’t deny it - and he didn’t let that happen. He gave himself up first.”

It was a surprising turn of events, to be sure, and Pritchard’s first instinct was to be skeptical. Mentally, he compared the patterns of tracks and stains he had seen on the ground to Siobhan’s story. Before he could fully form his conclusion, Ferris spoke, his voice cold.

“Did he?” he challenged. “Why should we take your word for that? More likely you gave him up to save your son, just like Brendan asked you to.”

“Ferris.” Both the prince and Siobhan turned at Pritchard’s voice, which had surprised even him with its heat. In a calmer voice, he continued. “The tracks back up the story. There’s no evidence of a struggle here. Halt walked out of the shelter of the house of his own accord, and didn’t turn back.”

“Maybe she threatened him,” said Ferris, unwilling to back down.

“A sling wouldn’t be my first choice for threatening someone at close quarters,” said Pritchard. “The evidence backs up what Siobhan has told us. This isn’t the time for wild accusations.”

“It’s all right, Ranger,” said Siobhan. The flash of anger that had awoken in her eyes at Ferris’s words was starting to die down. “He’s under a lot of stress. His brother could have escaped, nearly escaped - it’s only natural for him to be upset that it didn’t happen that way.” 

Siobhan took a deep breath, as if trying to ease a deep pain. Finally, she met Ferris’s eyes again. “Ferris, I still blame myself for what happened. Maybe if I’d managed to get a shot at Brendan, or been able to think of some better plan, or if I’d been able to stop him from doing what he did, he’d be safe right now. And if you want to blame me for that, I’d say you have a right to. But I didn’t betray your brother. Not in the way you described. All I wanted was for both him and my son to be safe - but he saw that wouldn’t be possible, and he made the choice that he did. All I want now is to make sure he doesn’t pay for that choice with his life.”

“We’ll find him before that happens. And what you’ve told us might help that happen,” said Pritchard. He was conscious of the seconds slipping by, knowing that each one meant the bandits’ lead on them was growing. “If that’s all you can tell us, we’d better be on our way. There’s a chance we can catch those bastards while the trail is still warm.”

“I’m coming with you.”

Siobhan’s tone was resolute, and the look in her eyes silently challenged the objections brimming in his throat. “I’m good with a sling - as those bandits that brought him here found out. I couldn’t save him then, and I’m not going to let a second chance slip through my fingers. I’ve done all I can for him here - done my best to send a message to the King, like he asked me. It could be weeks before anything comes of that, and depending on what condition he’s in, those could be weeks we don’t have. And if that’s the case, you’ll do well to have a healer along.”

Pritchard found it hard to argue with that logic - and, if it came to qualifications, Siobhan definitely had an edge over his existing company.

“How soon can you be ready?”


	16. Chapter 16

“Kid’s starting to look like a ghost.”

_ The voice had come from behind him – the words muttered softly, in an accent that he should know. Did know. It would come to him in a moment. _

“Brendan goes on about ‘protecting his investment’ – more like letting his goons half-kill the kid, then letting time finish the job. You don’t suppose ’is arm’s infected?”

_ Another voice, half-whispering, in the same accent.  _

_ They were talking about him. _

_ The first voice spoke again. Araluen. The accent was Araluen _ .

“Saw to it this morning. Ugly, aye, but healing clean. It’s not that. They don’t feed him enough.”

“That, and the whacks round ’is head. Takes a lot out of you, I reckon.”

“Aye, and I says to Brendan, ‘He’s not sleeping, sitting wi’ his arms pulled back behind him like that,’ but he won’t hear sense. He’s worried about the brat escaping, but I wager he’ll be escaping right off this earth by-and-by if Brendan don’t come to his senses.”

“‘E hasn’t got any to come to, arrogant bastard. After what ‘e said to me... if the kid does kick it, it’d almost be worth losing my cut just to see it taken out of that moron’s hide.”

“Oi, none of that. You can laugh at losing your share, but I’ve got debts to pay.”

“Oh, and I haven’t?” 

There was a tense silence for a moment before the voice continued, evidently trying to steer the conversation into less dangerous regions.

“At any rate, the kid’s tough enough. Look at him - he’ll make it to the coast at any rate.”

“Aye, and they say the sea air works wonders, hey?”

As the two Araluens laughed, the aching boy struggling to keep upright on his horse turned the words over and over in his mind, pondering what they meant for his future.

~oOo~

Ferris watched as Siobhan organized their supplies for the coming days, supplementing Pritchard and Ferris’s pile of dried fruit and meat with bread and pickles she had brought from the cottage and sorting them into packs as Pritchard prepared the horses for the day’s ride.

It had been two days since they’d left the little cottage, and Ferris was beginning to wish that he had never seen it. Traveling with just Pritchard had been one thing, but once Siobhan had joined them, Ferris reckoned things had become all but unbearable.

“We’d do well to change the water in the canteens before we set out,” Siobhan said. “While we have fresh water, anyway. Can you take care of that, Ferris?”

“Why can’t you do it?” Ferris asked.

Things seemed to freeze, and Ferris realized that Siobhan and Pritchard had paused in what they were doing to look at him. There was an icy silence that Ferris didn’t like at all before Pritchard shrugged and picked up the canteens himself. “I’ll take care of it, Siobhan.”

“Thank you,” Siobhan said. She resumed her task, finishing up one of the packs. Finally, she looked back to Ferris. “You’re not much like your brother, are you?”

The question startled Ferris, and stirred something ugly inside him. “No, I’m not,” he said, a little more forcefully than he intended. “And I don’t want to be.”

Pritchard, returning with the canteens, heard Ferris’s words. He didn’t say anything, but Ferris noticed an unreadable expression cross his face.

Was it just Ferris’s imagination? Or had he sensed a shift in Pritchard’s regard of him since Siobhan’s story? About how Halt had sacrificed himself for her son - had given himself back over into the hands of his kidnappers?

That was, if the story was even true. But despite his earlier protests, from the first time Siobhan had recounted the events at the cottage, the truth of them had weighed on Ferris like a stone in his gut. It was just the kind of thing Halt would do. 

Halt had never, would never, understand the responsibilities that came with the crown. He had always preferred to look down on the hard choices of being a leader from his insufferable moral pedestal, like he was better than them all for refusing to dirty his hands with the tiny injustices that had to be made when considering the bigger picture. He had crossed countless royal advisors and local lords over these issues. There were even rumors that the time he had bumped into Lord Darragh while crossing the drawbridge, sending the hapless noble into the moat, had not been an accident. It was immature and naive and  _ selfish,  _ and it was exactly the kind of thing that proved he had never deserved the throne.

And now he had done it again. This bandit leader, Brendan, had had a young boy at knifepoint - so Halt had simply decided to give himself up to ensure the peasant boy’s safety. There were any number of ways out of that situation, Ferris thought. Chiefly, that the back door had been right there. Why hadn’t Halt simply escaped that way? The chances were low that Brendan would have bothered any more with the peasant woman and her son, witnesses or no, once he realized his quarry had fled. 

Oh, but that wouldn’t have satisfied Halt, would it? No, Halt’s sense of morality was so bent out of proportion that the mere  _ possibility _ that Brendan would harm two random peasants made it impossible for him to flee. One peasant boy  _ might  _ be hurt, and so Halt had turned himself, the Crown Prince, over to ruthless bandits who were probably planning to kill him, or stage a royal coup, or worse.

And the way Siobhan and Pritchard continued to act as though it had been a noble, admirable thing to do, and respect Halt all the more for it, was making Ferris’s blood boil.

As far as he was concerned, at this point, if anything ended up happening to Halt, he deserved it.

Guilt stung at him as he had the thought, and the fact made Ferris even more upset. It was  _ true!  _ No matter what happened to Halt or the kingdom now, he had literally caused it with his stupid, selfish morals. Of course, that didn’t mean Ferris or the rest of them were going to  _ allow _ it to happen. They’d rescue him, no matter what it took.

_ My brother is no one’s path to the throne. _

He had to hold onto that. Ferris wasn’t sure he liked the places his mind had been slipping lately, but there was one thing he was still sure of: the thought of anyone using Halt’s ill-deserved claim to the throne as path to power made him sick.

~oOo~


	17. Chapter 17

They didn’t see Pritchard coming until he seemed to appear in front of them, materializing out of the rain and the gathering dusk. Ferris couldn’t suppress a shudder. He would never, ever get used to that.

“It’s them, all right,” said Pritchard, shaking the water out of his eyes. “We’ve caught up to them at last.”

“How many of them are there?” Siobhan asked.

“Eight of them, by my count, all pretty heavily armed,” said Pritchard. “They’ve got some tarps stretched out over sticks, probably to protect them from the rain. Looks like they’ve caught some kind of freshwater shrimp – they’re cooking it now.”

“Did you see Halt?” asked Siobhan.

“Yes,” said Pritchard. “He’s near the center of the camp, under one of those tarps. He’s not tied to a tree this time, probably because of the weather. His hands and feet are tied, and one of them’s set to guard him.”

The old Ranger sighed, and the concern deepened on Siobhan’s face. “How is he? Could you tell?”

“It was hard to tell anything for certain - the only light was the fires they’ve got under the tarps. I’d say he looks about as well as may be expected, under the circumstances. Which is to say, we’d better get him out of here as soon as we can.”

At Pritchard’s words, Ferris felt a cold hand squeeze his heart. It was a complicated, confusing mix of emotions – worry, fear, yes, but mostly anger. Anger at the bandits, at Pritchard, at himself, at Halt, all swirling within him.

“How?” he asked. “What’s our plan to get him out of here?”

Pritchard gave a sigh of frustration. “This storm is what bothers me. That and the darkness, and those blasted tarps.”

“Yes,” said Siobhan. “If we just had better conditions, between your longbow and my sling we could pick most of them off in a few volleys. But as it is, it would be close to impossible.”

“Then why don’t we attack them head-on?” Ferris asked.

“That would be worse,” said Pritchard. “Their numbers, their armor, their weapons – all the advantages are on their side in a close-range battle.”

“All we’d manage to accomplish would be getting ourselves killed – and that wouldn’t help your brother,” said Siobhan.

Pritchard nodded. “Whatever we do, we can’t risk wasting the element of surprise. Even if we did manage to do some damage, if our first action isn’t decisive, it would still be too easy for Brendan or one of his cronies to slip away with Halt in the confusion.”

“But we could catch up with him again,” said Ferris. “And then he wouldn’t have numbers on his side.”

Pritchard’s face was grim. “We might not have the chance,” he said. “We’re less than a day’s journey from the coast. And from their clothes, there look to be two Araluen nobles down there among his men. I fear Brendan may be getting close to his destination.”

“But... if they’re planning to take him to Araluen... that may mean Brendan has a ship waiting for him, somewhere close,” said Siobhan.

Pritchard nodded. “And if Brendan gets away from us here, he could make it to his ship before we catch him again. Once he gets Halt on board that ship, our chances of getting him back shrink pretty drastically.”

Ferris’s anger was growing. He was hearing a lot of reasons why what seemed like the perfect chance to rescue Halt might slip out of their fingers, and the idea was enough to make him see red. “What are we going to do, then?” he demanded.

Pritchard regarded him. “Our best chance, right now, is to keep an eye on their camp and wait for the odds to swing in our favor. Once it gets light, especially if this storm clears, all the advantages will be on our side.”

“They’re sitting right there, and all we can do is wait?” Ferris spat.

“If we wait, we have a better chance of rescuing Halt,” said Siobhan. “Right now, it’s all risks, but if we wait for the morning, after the first few volleys we’ll have cut their numbers in half.”

“We’ll leave the horses here, where they’re less likely to be noticed,” said Pritchard. “There’s a spot up closer where we can keep an eye on the camp but still avoid being seen, if we’re careful. And we’ll have to be quiet.”

~oOo~

As he sat beside Pritchard and Siobhan, in their concealed watchpost not far from the camp, Ferris’s thoughts crashed around him in a storm even more tumultuous than the one that raged in the sky over them.

_A decisive first move._

_This is poison, a very potent one._

_Brendan has a ship, somewhere close._

_Less of a disaster if the bandits had simply killed Halt._

_Whatever happens now, Halt brought it upon himself._

_If we don’t get him now, he slips away for good, and takes Halt with him._

_My brother is no one’s path to the throne._

Pritchard and Siobhan seemed to think that if they waited until morning, their victory was assured – but Ferris didn’t see why Brendan couldn’t slip away in the chaos with Halt just as easily in the light as he could in the darkness.

Ferris knew how to prevent that.

_I have a weapon._

Watching and waiting – that was the best chance Pritchard and Siobhan could offer. And it was by no means certain. If Ferris simply went along, all it would take was one slip for Brendan’s plan to succeed. And then – he would have the Crown Prince of Clonmel safely overseas. Ready for whatever nefarious purposes the enemy might have for him.

Clonmel would be in danger – on the brink of overthrow. 

And if Ferris could prevent that with one act, and failed to do so, simply because he wasn’t willing to dirty his hands with the potential consequences – what would that make him?

Ferris’s jaw tightened. 

It would make him no better than Halt.

It was that thought that spurred him as he slowly rose to his feet, trying to ignore the way his legs were shaking. He was cold, it was because of the rain. Nothing else. “I have to go.”

“Ferris, get down,” Pritchard hissed. “If they see us –”

“I _have_ to _go,_ ” said Ferris.

Pritchard swung to look at him, anger replaced by frustrated understanding. “Oh. Well, whatever you do, be _quiet._ If you get us spotted, there’s no telling what could happen. Go over back there, near where we left the horses. Be quick.”

Ferris didn’t dignify that with an answer. He doubted the bandits could see anything in their general direction, with the dusk deepening into nightfall and the rain bucketing down. All the better. With any luck, Pritchard and Siobhan wouldn’t see him either as he doubled back to get closer to the camp.

Close enough to do what had to be done.

~oOo~

Ferris crept as close to the camp as he dared. He had scouted out this spot from their concealed hideout. Knew where he needed to be in order to be closest to the bubbling pot.

He reached into his pocket, turning the little bottle over and over in his hand. He had taken it from Pritchard’s pack, the first time he was assigned to take watch. He wondered why the old Ranger hadn’t hidden it better, hadn’t expected it. Why would Ferris trust his traveling companion with his only weapon?

It didn’t take him long to prepare. He had rehearsed this scenario a thousand times in his head, every time he lay down to sleep since leaving Dun Kilty. All he had to do now was execute it. It would be a long time before Pritchard or Siobhan even took notice of the fact that he had been gone too long. They had always seen him as useless.

He tore a strip from his tunic – easy enough to do, as worn as it had become over the past several weeks. All the shirts he had brought were. He picked up a stone from the forest floor and wrapped the fabric around it, once, twice, three times before knotting it off. 

Hands shaking, he opened the little bottle and tilted it, saturating the fabric.

He took a deep breath. And then Ferris did what he knew he shouldn’t. He couldn’t help it. He looked around the camp, eyes flitting from one tarp to another until at last –

He spotted him.

Lying on the ground, bound hand and foot. The guard had his back to Ferris, but from where the boy crouched, he could see Halt’s face. His eyes were closed, and his face was pale, drawn, and dirty. But it was still Halt.

Looking at him, something shifted within Ferris. He felt his resolve beginning to weaken. Could he really do this? Knowing he was risking Halt’s life?

Perhaps he wasn’t, Ferris told himself. Maybe the bandits had fed Halt already, from their stores. No reason to waste fresh food on their prisoner. Halt already looked to be asleep – surely, he wasn’t going to eat whatever was bubbling in the pot. This was the perfect chance to take out the bandits, weaken them, kill them. And in the morning, swoop in to rescue Halt.

Or to find that Halt was dead with the rest of them. That Ferris had... had killed his own brother.

He looked down at the rock in his hand. There was still time. He could leave it here, go back to Pritchard and Siobhan. Wait for morning.

Wait to realize that Brendan had carried Halt off. That his chance had flown while he was too weak to take it. While he had quivered and quavered, unwilling to do what had to be done. Just like Halt.

And then the Crown Prince would be in the hands of a foreign power, and Clonmel would be in the greatest danger she had ever been in.

The thought he had had in the conference chamber, a lifetime ago, came back to Ferris.

_It would have been less of a disaster if the bandits had simply killed Halt._

It had been true, then. It was still true now. Even a dead Crown Prince would be less dangerous than a hostage Crown Prince.

But could he live with himself if he made it happen?

 _Halt did this to himself! To all of them!_ Ferris had to remember that. Halt could have already been halfway home, _Clonmel_ could have been safe, if Halt hadn’t chosen to take the moral high ground, and damn the consequences. Just as he always had.

He had never been the prince Clonmel deserved.

_But Ferris still could be!_

Ferris shut his eyes. He was doing what had to be done. He was saving Halt. He was saving Halt, and even... even failing that, he was saving Clonmel.

_My brother is no one’s path to the throne._

As he opened his eyes, he saw lightning flash across the sky in the distance. This was his chance.

He raised the rock, and then let it fly. It all but missed the pot, but it went in – and the sound of the splash was lost in the rumble of thunder that shook the ground around them.

Ferris turned from the camp before his eyes could land on Halt again. He stumbled back into the woods a few steps and was sick.

Eventually, he headed back towards Pritchard and Siobhan and their hideout.

Before long, Clonmel’s Crown Prince would be on his way home.

~oOo~


	18. Chapter 18

Halt awoke with a groan. Someone had kicked him in the ribs. Halt knew even before he opened his eyes that it was Owen – the bandit had almost invariably been the one assigned to guard him since their return from Siobhan’s house.

“Do you know the best part about being so close to the coast, Your Highness?” said Owen. He was eating a plate of shrimp, which Halt guessed had been meant for him. This, too, had been a regular occurence the past few days. “I can’t decide. See, it’s got to be either the food, or else how soon we’ll be rid of you _. _ ”

“There, I can’t help you,” Halt grunted. With an effort, he sat up. “See, I’ve been too busy trying to figure out what the difference is between you and Dennis.”

Owen’s face remained impassive as he ate another shrimp. But when he spoke, his voice had tightened. “How’s that?”

“Well, see, it’s pretty clear that you hate me just as much as he did,” said Halt. “But he was the only one to attack me outright. So it begs the question: was he braver than you, or just stupider?”

Owen ate another shrimp. “I’ll tell you the difference, Your Highness,” he growled. “I’m alive, and he’s dead. And so will you be, soon, if you don’t learn some respect.”

“I’m starting to think it must be that he was braver,” said Halt. “Hurting somebody by stealing his food, that’s a coward’s move.”

“Not stealing if it was never yours,” said Owen. “Oh, that’s right. You royals like to think you own everything. How much good’s that doing you? Just think! You own the very dirt you’re lying on. And all the dirt on you too, hah!”

“And it can’t be that he was stupider,” Halt continued, as if he hadn’t heard. “After all, Brendan’s bound to find out one of these days that my rations aren’t getting to me. And you’re the one he put in charge of feeding me. Hard to get stupider than that, isn’t it?”

Owen’s jaw clenched again, but he recovered quickly. “Aye, ‘one of these days,’ Highness. Hasn’t anybody told you that we’re less than a day’s journey from the coast? As soon as you’re on board, I get my pay and leave.”

Halt didn’t need to say anything – the expression on his face was enough to send Owen into a fit of laughter. “That’s right. This time tomorrow, you’ll be down in the hold of a ship headed for Araluen. Not just a little hop across the channel, either – I hear tell you’re going on a nice little cruise all the way to Gorlan Fief. Hope you’ve got your sea legs, Your Highness.”

A crash of thunder interrupted the man’s words, but afterwards, Owen only grinned wider. “On second thought, maybe they’d best keep you up on deck. Can’t have you tossing your cookies all over the cargo if this storm keeps up, eh?”

With an ugly laugh, Owen set the half-gone plate of shrimp down by Halt’s feet. “Here. You’d better eat while you can – it’ll probably be the last meal you can hold onto for awhile.”

~oOo~

Most of the camp was already asleep when the first twinges hit him. Halt tried to ignore them, but as they began to worsen, the thought entered his mind that Owen had slipped something into his food. He dismissed it almost as quickly as it had occurred to him – after all, Owen had eaten most of it himself.

He rolled over, hoping to get some relief from the building discomfort.

Before an hour had passed, he knew this hope had been in vain. He couldn’t remember ever feeling this sick before in his life. He was sure there was nothing left in his stomach to expel, and yet still the nausea and the pounding in his head would not leave him – and the horrible fits of dry retching that gripped him every few moments did nothing to ease them.

Awful sounds from all around him told him that the rest of the camp was in the same state, and Halt realized that the shrimp must have been bad. Somehow, the knowledge that his captors were in as much misery as he was did not make Halt feel any better. 

Some time later – it was impossible to keep track of how much of the night had passed – a memory came unbidden to Halt. His tutor, Seamus, had told him the story of how a fearsome army of Temujai sweeping through the continent had been halted in its tracks by its leader falling ill from bad shellfish. He remembered remarking on how the course of history could be turned by something so small. Now, he would have laughed had he had the strength. Here he was, in the midst of a royal kidnapping that could very well be dashed in the same way.

He supposed he should be glad that he and the bandits might die here – at any rate, it would be safer for Clonmel than his captors’ plot succeeding. In the moment, however, he found it hard to be glad about anything.

After awhile, he slipped into a daze, and his sickness combined with a disturbed dream. He did not know why he had thought before that his misery was due to bad shrimp – the cause was obvious. He was on a ship, bound for Gorlan Fief, and he was seasick. Owen had taunted him about this, and for once in his life it seemed like the bandit had been right. Or perhaps it was due to bad shrimp after all – or even both. Did one eat ship on a shrimp?

Thunder rumbled overhead. There was a storm going on – that was why the ship was rocking so heavily, why his stomach was churning. But wait – his captors were sick, too. That meant no one was manning the ship. It would sink in the storm – and tied to the railing as he was, Halt would drown.

His terror at the thought was enough to wake him, and he found that the waking was worse. He was back at the bandit camp, but he was still dying of food poisoning, which, arguably, was more torturous than drowning.

In this manner the hours passed for Halt - from sleeping to waking, neither bringing relief, until at last he lost the ability to tell one from the other.

~oOo~

Pritchard was awoken by Siobhan softly saying his name. He lay still for only an instant to confirm that there was no immediate danger before rising to a crouch in one fluid motion.

“What is it?” he asked. He could tell instinctively that there was roughly another hour to go before he was due to take watch – there had to be another reason for Siobhan to have awakened him.

“Something’s happening over there,” said Siobhan. “I’m not certain what exactly – it’s hard to tell without much light. But people are waking up, and... from the sound of it, at least a few of them are pretty sick.”

It wasn’t long before Pritchard could hear for himself what Siobhan meant. “Eugh!” he whispered. “How long has this been going on?”

“I first heard it about an hour ago,” said Siobhan. “It was so faint, I wasn’t sure what it was. After that, I thought it might be just one of them having a hard time of it. But it’s been happening more and more frequently, the past little while – it’s got to be more than one or two of them.”

“I wonder what’s got them so sick?” Pritchard muttered. Once the sound had been pointed out, it was impossible to miss. He felt his own stomach grow a little uneasy, but he knew it was more likely due to the sound and his imagination than any true cause, and did his best to ignore it. “Maybe one of them passed through a village for supplies and caught something.”

“We haven’t seen any tracks of one of them branching off, though, have we?” said Siobhan. “Wait a minute. Supplies... didn’t you say they were cooking some kind of shrimp?”

“It looked that way,” Pritchard replied. He peered down over the camp, but it was impossible to make out the place where he had seen the nets from their current viewpoint. 

“From the sound of it, I’d say it’s a safe bet the shrimp was no good,” said Siobhan.

By this time, low as it was, their conversation had awoken Ferris. It didn’t take long to apprise the Prince of the situation.

“I suppose this means we won’t have to wait for morning,” he remarked after a moment. “I mean, if they’re all sick, it shouldn’t be too hard to subdue them.”

“Assuming all of them ate the shrimp,” said Siobhan. Then, she seemed to realize what she had said. “Oh, no...”

Pritchard soon came to the same realization. “What would his chances be, if it’s severe?” he asked. “Could you help him in any way?”

Siobhan’s face was grim. “It would depend on how much of it he had, and what kind it is. I have some compounds that might help ease the symptoms, but it’s ultimately up to him to fight it off. The most important part would be making sure he gets rest and enough liquids.” She looked from Pritchard back to the camp. “Either way, Ferris is probably right. The sooner we get to him, the better.”

~oOo~


End file.
